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THE    THEATRE 
THROUGH    ITS    STAGE    DOOR 


David  Belasco  as  He  Appears  To-day 


The  Theatre 
Through  Its 
Stage  Door 

By  David  Be  la  SCO 

Edited  by 

LOUIS  V.  DEFOE 

Illustrated  from  Photographs 


Harper    &    brothers     rublishers 
New    York  and  London   MCMXIX 


/^/vV-  I.   '^ 


The  Theatre  TiiRoucn  its  Stage  Door 

Copyright,  1919,   by   Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  September,   1919 

I-T 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

A  Foreword ix 

I.  The  Theatre  Through  Its  Stage  Door  ....  i 

II.  The  Evolution  of  a  Play 41 

III.  Developing  the  Best  in  the  Actor 90 

IV.  The  Problem  of  the  Child  Actor 127 

V.  Important  Aids  to  the  Actor's  Art 161 

VI.  The  Drama's  Flickering  Bogy — the  Movies    .     .  196 

VII.  Holding  the  Mirror  Up  to  Nature 224 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


David  Belasco  as  He  Appears  To-day    .    .    .    /    Frontispiece 

Entrance  to  David  Belasco's  Studio  Above  the 

Belasco  Theatre Facing  p.    lo 

David  Belasco  Giving  Stage  Instructions  to 
Frances  Starr  at  a  Rehearsal  During  the 
Run  of  "  Marie-Odile  " "         22 

David  Belasco  in  the  Workroom  of  His  Studio 
IN  the  Belasco  Theatre,  Before  the  Fire- 
place Which  Contains  Seventy-three  Tiles 
Taken  from  the  Alhambra  at  Granada,  Spain 

Mrs.  Leslie  Carter  and  Hamilton  Revelle    ,     . 

David  Belasco  at  Work  on  the  Preliminaries 
OF  A  Play  in  the  Workroom  of  His  Studio 

David  Belasco  with  the  Heads  of  His  Artistic 
AND  Mechanical  Departments 

David  Belasco  Reading  the  Manuscript  of  a 
New  Play,  "The  Lily,"  in  the  Rehearsal- 
room  Under  the  Auditorium  of  the  Belasco 
Theatre  

David  Belasco  Explaining  to  Entire  Company 
Details  Which  He  Wishes  to  Accomplish 
in  One  of  the  Acts  of  "Tiger  Rose"    .     .     . 

Lenore  Ulric 

Frances  Starr    

David  Warfield 

Mrs.  Leslie  Carter 

Scene  from  Metropolitan  Opera-House  Pro- 
duction of  "The  Girl  of  the  Golden  West" 


30 
40 

50 
60 


70 

80 
92 
92 
92 
92 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Which  Mr.  Belasco  Directed  and  for  Which 

Puccini  Wrote  the  Operatic  Score      .     .     .  Facing  p.  102 

Frances  Starr  in  the  Final  Act  of  "  Marie-Odile," 

BY  Edward  Knoblock "        no 

Blanche  Bates  as  The  Girl,  Fr.\nk  Keenan  as 
Jack  Rance,  in  David  Belasco's  Dramatic 
Production  of  "The  Girl  of  the  Golden 
West,"  in  1905 "       120 

David  Belasco  with  the  Children  of  the  "Dad- 
dies" Company  at  Luncheon  in  the  Belasco 
Theatre  Greenroom  During  Rehearsals  .     .       "       132 

"The  Return  of  Peter  Grimm" "        142 

Scene  IN  the  Auction  Store  in  "The  Auctioneer"       "       150 

The    Electric    Switchboard    of    the    Belasco 

Theatre,  the  Largest  in  America  ....  "  i6c 
The  "Light  Bridge"  of  the  Belasco  Theatre  .  "  172 
Machine-shops  in  the  Second  Sub-cellar  Under 

THE  Belasco  Theatre "       172 

The  Shops  Where  Mr.  Belasco's  Lighting  Ap- 
paratus Is  Manufactured  and  Experiments 
IN   Stage  -  lighting   Are   Constantly   Being 

Carried  On "       182 

Scene  from  Act  II  of  "The  Good  Little  Devil," 
Showing  Mary  Pickford,  Now  a  Noted  Mo- 
tion Picture  Star,  and  Ernest  Truex     .     ,       "       198 
David  Warfield  as  Simon  Levi  in  "The   Auc- 
tioneer"              "       208 

Probably  the  Best  Picture  of  David  Warfield 

as  Anton  von  Barwig  IN  "  The  Music  Master  "  "  216 
David  Belasco  and  His  Mother,  Reina  Martin 

Belasco "       224 

David  Belasco  at  Twenty "       224 

David  Belasco  at  Thirty-two "       224 

David  Belasco  at  Forty "       224 

Robert  T.  Haines  as  Kara,  Blanche  Bates  as 

Yo-San,  in  "The  Darling  of  the  Gods"   .     .       "       230 


A    FOREWORD 

The  chapters  in  this  book  are  the  result  of 
occasional  leisure  hours  extending  over  the  past 
two  years.  They  have  been  suggested  by  what 
is,  I  believe,  the  experience  of  others  who,  like 
myself,  have  been  closely  identified  during  a 
long  period  with  the  artistic  direction  of  the 
dramatic  stage. 

Because  it  does  not  seek  aid  in  the  form  of 
government  subsidy  or  millionaire  endowment, 
the  theatre  in  the  United  States,  as  in  England, 
is  regarded  as  a  private  enterprise.  But  when 
the  theatre  is  rightly  conducted  it  must  ac- 
knowledge grave  public  duties  and  responsibil- 
ities which,  I  think,  are  now  recognized  by 
those  among  its  workers  who  rightly  under- 
stand it  as  an  art  and  strive  to  serve  its  esthetic 
purposes.  They  are  members  of  a  public,  or 
at  least  a  quasi-public,  profession.  However 
sincere  may  be  their  desire  for  privacy,  they 
are,  in  a  sense,  public  personages  to  whom  other 
persons  assume  the  right — and  also  should  be 
accorded  the  right — to  come  for  information 
or  advice. 

In  one  of  the  following  pages  I  have  said  that 
*'the  observation  and  experience  of  those  of 


A   FOREWORD 

us  who  are  within  the  theatre  lead  to  the  con- 
clusion that  nearly  every  one  is  not  only  a  play- 
goer, but,  at  one  time  or  another,  aspires  to 
write  or  even  tries  to  write  a  play."  I  might 
add  without  much  exaggeration  that  many  who 
do  not  come  within  this  category  are  seized,  at 
some  time  in  their  lives,  with  the  temptation 
to  become  actors.  The  mimetic  impulse  is 
strong  and  it  is  almost  universal  in  human 
nature,  though  it  asserts  itself  in  various  forms. 

At  any  rate,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  the 
profession  of  the  theatre  appeals  powerfully 
and  romantically  to  the  public,  especially  to 
the  youthful  part  of  the  public.  Happily,  it 
is  to  the  decided  advantage  of  the  theatre  that 
it  exerts  this  attraction.  A  lively  interest  in 
the  stage,  its  art,  its  work,  and  its  people,  if 
it  does  not  always  result  in  breeding  play- 
wrights and  players,  breeds  playgoers;  and 
it  is  through  an  ardor  for  play  going,  which  has 
become  one  of  oiu:  national  traits,  that  the 
theatre  advances  and  prospers. 

From  people  in  every  part  of  this  country, 
with  aspirations  or  fancied  aspirations  to  enter 
one  or  another  of  the  branches  of  the  stage 
profession,  comes  a  very  large  part  of  the 
voluminous  correspondence  which  daily  reach- 
es my  theatre.  To  these  thousands  of  letters 
asking  information  or  counsel  on  a  great  va- 
riety of  subjects  related  to  my  profession  I 
aim  always  to  reply.     Necessarily  my  answers 


A  FOREWORD 

must  be  brief.  For  the  most  part  they  consist, 
unfortunately,  of  a  few  words  of  disillusionment 
to  their  senders,  who,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten, 
know  nothing  of  the  theatre  from  its  inside. 

The  same  attention  I  cannot  observe,  to  my 
regret,  in  the  cases  of  the  many  daily  callers 
who  seek  interviews  at  my  studio.  My  en- 
gagements and  my  limited  leisure  do  not  per- 
mit the  courtesy  I  would  prefer  to  show  even 
to  those  visitors  who  are  personally  unknown 
to  me.  But  long  experience  has  made  me 
familiar  with  the  questions  which  they,  and 
also  the  great  majority  of  my  correspondents, 
are  most  likely  to  ask,  so  it  was  as  a  general 
reply  to  those  seekers  after  information  or 
guidance  regarding  the  theatre,  its  art  and  its 
requirements,  that  I  undertook  the  opening 
chapters  in  this  volume,  which  bears  the  title, 
The  Theatre  Through  Its  Stage  Door — the  door 
through  which  the  great  public  cannot  peer 
into  it. 

Those  first  candid  observations  were  pub- 
lished in  The  Ladies'  Home  Journal.  If  I  had 
hoped  that  they  would  decrease  the  number 
of  letters  and  visits  from  people  interested  in 
the  theatre  either  as  a  vocation  or  as  a 
source  of  entertainment,  I  was  mistaken,  for 
they  prompted  an  increased  flood.  According- 
ly, the  succeeding  chapters  which  compose  this 
book  resulted.  But  I  did  not  have  at  my 
disposal   the  time  necessary  to  put  them  in 


A  FOREWORD 

the  completed  state  that  they  required,  and  I 
make  acknowledgment  to  Louis  V.  De  Foe, 
who  throughout  twenty  years,  as  Dramatic 
Critic  of  The  New  York  World,  has  been  my 
intimate  and  helpful  friend,  for  editing  and 
revising  them,  and  also  for  rearranging  them 
as  they  appear  in  this  volume.  Not  all  its 
contents  has  been  published  before,  though 
certain  chapters  have  appeared  in  The  Saturday 
Evening  Post,  The  Ladies'  Home  Journal,  and 
Munseys  Magazine. 

I  have  attempted  to  epitomize  my  theories, 
views,  and  practices  in  the  making  of  my 
dramatic  productions,  in  the  training  and  de- 
velopment of  my  actors,  and  in  the  regulation 
and  direction  of  the  manifold  elements  which 
enter  into  the  mounting  and  unfolding  of  every 
work  of  dramatic  art,  not  as  a  treatise  on 
these  different  subjects,  but  as  information 
for  the  many  who,  I  know  by  experience,  are 
curious  to  learn  of  the  work  of  the  theatre 
through  other  sources  than  the  prosceniimi 
opening. 

Especially  have  I  endeavored  to  warn  the 
aspirants  to  a  career  in  the  theatre  of  what 
energy,  devotion,  and  sacrifice  will  be  de- 
manded of  them  if  they  expect  to  win  even 
ordinary  success — or  what  passes  for  success — 
in  the  profession  of  the  stage. 

The  theatre  of  my  conception  is  the  noblest 
of  the  arts — noblest  and  most  influential  be- 


A  FOREWORD 

cause  it  is,  of  all  the  arts,  the  most  democratic 
and  closest  to  the  hearts  and  lives  of  the 
people.  He  who  is  ambitious  to  reach  a  high 
place  among  the  workers  within  its  walls 
must  be  prepared  to  give  to  it  the  best  that  is 
in  him  of  unremitting  labor  and  unselfishness. 

David  Belasco. 

January,  1919. 


THE    THEATRE 
THROUGH    ITS    STAGE    DOOR 


THE   THEATRE 
THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

Chapter  I 


COULD  only  the  outer  world  look  in  upon 
the  little,  mysterious  inner  world  of  the 
theatre  from  under  the  dim  lantern  which  hangs 
over  the  stage  door,  instead  of  from  beneath 
the  glittering  electric  lights  over  the  front 
entrance,  there  would  soon  be  a  decrease  in 
the  never-ending  but  always-changing  rows  of 
eager  young  men  and  women  who  daily  line 
the  walls  of  the  waiting-room  outside  the 
office  of  every  dramatic  producer  and  manager. 

If  more  were  known  of  the  difficult  road 
which  winds  up-hill  from  its  obscure  beginning 
to  the  place  in  the  theatre's  sun,  which  is  the 
limelight,  the  steady  flood  of  letters  from  un- 
known people  in  every  station  of  life,  each  with 
its  plea  which  constant  repetition  has  made  so 
familiar,  would  presently  diminish. 

Here  is  an  example  of  thousands  of  such 
letters  sent  to  the  Belasco  Theatre  every  year. 

[i] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

It  is  postmarked  from  a  small  town  in  Illinois, 
the  name  of  which  I  have  never  heard  before. 
It  is  written  in  a  prim  hand  and  composed  with 
evident  care.  I  can  guess  the  heart-throbs  be- 
tween its  lines,  for  I  rec^  a  time  when  I  gave 
whole  days  to  writing  similar  letters,  and  I 
remember  the  mingled  hopes  and  misgivings  I 
poured  into  them. 

I  am  a  girl  eighteen  years  old,  of  fairly  good  appear- 
ance, I  should  say,  with  brown  eyes  and  hair.  I  have 
finished  school,  and  while  my  people  are  fairly  well-to-do, 
I  feel  I  ought  to  enter  some  profession  and  learn  to 
support  myself. 

From  the  time  I  was  a  child  I  have  loved  the  theatre. 
Nothing  else  has  ever  interested  me  nearly  so  much.  I 
think  I  have  some  real  talent  for  the  stage — that  is,  my 
family  and  all  my  friends  tell  me  I  have.  I  have  acted 
in  several  amatevir  plays  in  our  city  and  have  even  had 
some  of  the  most  important  parts.  I  have  always 
received  much  applause. 

After  thinking  it  over  carefully  I  am  writing  you  to 
ask  if  you  can  find  a  chance  for  me  in  any  of  your 
companies.  I  can  even  come  to  New  York  to  see  you 
if  you  think  there  is  any  hope.  I  would  prefer  to  act 
serious  parts  because  I  believe  I  have  emotional  ability. 
I  would  not  expect  to  do  very  prominent  work  during 
the  first  year  or  two,  so  I  would  not  ask  very  much  pay 
at  the  start.  Will  you  please  consider  my  application, 
for  it  means  so  much  to  me? 

Yours  very  truly, 

Agnes  Anderson. 

An  Anderson.  But  another  Mary?  I  doubt. 
Yet  still  I  wonder. 

[2] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

If  I  could  give  the  time  to  answer  fully  this 
letter  from  my  unknown  correspondent  who 
evidently  has  no  knowledge  whatever  of  the 
profession  she  seems  to  be  so  eager  to  enter  I 
would  tell  her  what  I  am  about  to  set  down  in 
these  pages.  Her  ambition  is  perfectly  legiti- 
mate and  I  do  not  underestimate  the  compli- 
ment she  pays  me  in  asking  for  my  help. 
In  order  to  carry  on  the  artistic  enterprises  of 
the  theatre  it  is  necessary  that  the  profession 
of  the  stage  should  attract  to  itself  people  from 
everywhere,  and  more  people,  and  still  more 
people.  The  hopeful  beginner  of  to-day  may 
become  the  famous  actor  of  the  years  to  come. 
Every  one  who  is  possessed  of  an  honest  desire 
to  enter  an  art  or  trade  has  the  right  to  ask 
at  least  a  chance.  If  those  in  control  of  the 
theatre  placed  only  discouragement  in  the  way 
of  all  who  are  ambitious  to  come  into  it,  it 
would  stagnate  and  gradually  the  most  demo- 
cratic of  the  arts  would  disappear. 

But  there  is  this  to  be  said  in  the  case  of 
those  who  aspire  to  enter  the  profession  of  the 
actor.  The  thing  which  makes  the  theatre  so 
treacherous  in  its  allurement,  through  no  real 
fault  of  the  theatre  itself,  is  that  so  many 
times  the  novice  is  attracted  to  it  by  its 
superficial  and  misleading  glamour,  rather  than 
because  of  the  real  inducements  which  a  career 
in  it  offers. 

I  do  not  mean  that  the  acting  profession  is 
l3l 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

not  in  every  sense  honorable  or  that  the  person 
who  enters  it  seriously  and  follows  it  faithfully 
and  diligently  will  not  find  in  it  satisfaction, 
happiness,  and  pecuniary  reward.  No  greater 
advantages  than  these  three  things  are  to 
be  gained  from  any  other  of  the  arts.  What 
I  do  mean  is  that,  when  seen  only  from  the 
public's  side  of  the  footlights  and  without  real 
knowledge  of  the  demands  placed  upon  its 
people,  few  even  so  much  as  surmise  at  what 
price  of  work,  persistence,  energy,  disappoint- 
ment, and  self-sacrifice  adequate  success  in  the 
actor's  profession  is  won. 

Almost  everything  becomes  more  attractive 
when  viewed  from  a  distance.  This  is  true  of 
every  art  and  profession.  It  is  right  that  the 
theatre,  especially,  should  present  an  outward 
show  of  glamour  and  romance,  and  that  the 
small  part  of  the  player's  work  which  the 
public  sees  should  seem  to  be  accomplished 
without  effort.  People  go  to  the  theatre  in 
search  of  relaxation  and  pleasure,  and  these 
ends  the  stage  can  satisfy  only  under  conditions 
of  perfect  harmony  and  ease.  So  the  figures 
in  its  mimic  life  must  reveal  themselves  always 
in  an  attractive  and  enviable  light.  When  the 
picture  through  the  proscenium  opening  is  not 
alluring,  when  its  make-believe  betrays  the  ef- 
fort by  which  the  illusion  is  created — then  the 
theatre  fails  to  accomplish  its  most  important 
purpose. 

[4] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

The  public — fortunately  for  itself — prefers 
not  to  distinguish  between  the  theatre's  com- 
pleted task  and  the  effort  required  to  bring 
about  its  seemingly  effortless  accomplishment. 
It  never  stops  to  consider  that  what  is  so 
pleasurable  and  restful,  or  so  absorbing  and 
exciting — and  so  apparently  spontaneous — is 
achieved  only  through  infinite  preparation,  cal- 
culation, study,  and  experience,  through  the 
unromantic  nerve-  and  body-wearing  toil  of 
weeks  of  preliminary,  and  afterward,  daily 
rehearsal  by  those  behind  the  curtain. 

It  does  not  reflect  that  the  actor  is  continu- 
ally under  the  scrutiny  of  his  audience,  that  he 
must  constantly  appear  at  his  best,  even  when 
he  feels  at  his  worst,  that  he  himself  is  the 
canvas  on  which  he  paints  the  picture  of 
his  character,  and  that  the  canvas  and  the 
picture  he  paints,  in  order  to  satisfy,  must 
be  flawless.  Here  lies  at  once  the  art  and 
deception  of  the  theatre— a  profession  in 
which  sauce  for  the  goose  is  never  sauce  for 
the  gander. 

The  experience  of  a  score  of  years  as  a  pro- 
ducer of  plays  and  director  of  theatres  con- 
vinces me  that  not  one  out  of  five  hundred, 
either  women  or  men,  who  yield  to  the  impulse 
to  attempt  a  career  in  the  theatre  even  so  much 
as  surmises  what  will  be  demanded  and  what 
must  be  given  to  win  unfavored  success.  Yet 
1  always  hesitate  to  discourage  the  applicants 

[5] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

who  come  to  me  for  advice  or  assistance,  even 
when  at  first  observation  they  seem  to  be 
unsuited  for  the  work  they  are  anxious  to 
attempt.  I  always  reflect  that  a  hasty,  ill- 
considered  word  may  rob  the  theatre,  which 
needs  them  so  much,  of  a  future  Modjeska, 
Clara  Morris,  or  Mrs.  Carter;  of  a  Jefferson, 
Mansfield,  or  David  Warfield. 

At  such  times  I  recall  an  incident  which  hap- 
pened while  I  was  preparing  to  produce  "  Zaza  " 
in  1 899.  One  day  a  Brooklyn  girl  about  sixteen 
years  old  came  to  me  with  the  familiar  story. 
She  was  tall,  thin,  angular,  very  awkward,  not 
at  all  prepossessing,  and  her  face  was  spotted 
with  freckles.  She  said  her  name  was  Ruth 
Dennis  and  that  she  was  poor. 

"I  want  to  do  something  on  the  stage,"  she 
told  me.  "I  know  I  am  not  graceful,  but  I 
can  dance  a  Uttle.  I  want  to  be  an  actress  and 
I  think  I  have  ability.  I  will  do  anjrthing  to 
get  a  start.     Can't  you  help  me?" 

At  first  glance  she  appeared  to  be  entirely 
unsuited  for  the  work  on  which  she  had  set 
her  heart.  Her  frank  admission  of  inexperi- 
ence showed  me  she  was  especially  unfitted  for 
anything  I  might  have  to  offer.  But  as  I 
studied  the  mobile  lines  in  her  face  and  the 
changing  light  in  her  eyes  I  was  struck  by  the 
imdeveloped  possibilities  in  the  girl.  I  asked 
her  to  go  through  a  few  steps  and  discovered 
that  she  had  original  talent.     I  introduced  a 

[6] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

little  dance  into  "  Zaza,"  a  very  trivial  bit,  and 
engaged  her  for  the  part  of  Alice. 

Once  in  my  theatre,  the  energy  and  ambition 
of  this  girl  had  no  limit.  The  audiences  liked 
her  dance,  and  this  recognition  greatly  en- 
coiiraged  her.  Soon  she  came  to  me  and  said 
she  had  no  place  to  practise  while  not  at  actual 
rehearsals.  I  told  her  she  could  have  my  stage 
whenever  it  was  not  in  use.  Every  morning 
after  that  she  came  to  my  old  Republic  Theatre 
and  practised  alone.  I  never  saw  a  girl  with 
such  a  keen  desire  to  succeed. 

When  it  came  time  to  take  the  "Zaza"  com- 
pany to  London,  she  asked  me  if  she  could  not 
go  along,  although  the  salary  was  small.  She 
said  she  wanted  to  study  the  dancers  in  Europe 
and  hoped  to  save  enough  money  to  enable 
her  to  spend  a  few  days  in  Paris.  While  we 
were  in  London  I  would  frequently  excuse  her 
from  a  performance  so  she  might  go  to  another 
theatre  and  watch  some  dancer  of  especial  note. 
By  great  economxy  she  also  saved  enough  money 
for  her  cherished  Paris  trip.  And  meanwhile, 
whenever  I  happened  in  at  the  theatre  during 
the  day,  I  found  her  on  the  stage  practising 
interminably  and  always  alone. 

When  I  made  my  *'Du  Barry"  production  a 
few  years  later  I  gave  her  a  part  and  also  a  solo 
dance.  By  that  time  she  had  improved  so 
much  that  audiences  always  gave  her  an  encore 
which  I  was  obliged  to  grant,  much  as  I  dis- 

l7] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

liked  to,  for  it  interrupted  the  continuity  of 
the  play.  She  had  then  changed  her  name  to 
Ruth  St.  Denis.  I  saw  that  dancing  was  her 
most  natural  mediiun  of  artistic  expression,  and 
advised  her  to  give  up  thought  of  becoming  an 
actress  and  devote  all  her  energy  to  the  dance. 

It  was  hard  for  her  to  put  away  the  idea  of 
acting,  but  she  finally  agreed  that  I  was  right, 
and  when  the  run  of  "  Du  Barry"  ended  we 
parted  company.  A  little  later  she  came  to 
me  and  said  she  had  composed  a  symbolical 
dance  and  wanted  me  to  see  her  perform  it. 
She  had  bought  her  costumes  out  of  her  savings, 
and  friends  who  had  become  interested  in  her 
work  had  provided  the  scenery.  That  was  the 
"Radia"  dance  which  brought  Ruth  St.  Denis 
her  first  substantial  prestige  as  an  independent 
artist. 

She  is  one  of  the  best  examples  I  have  ever 
known  of  a  self-taught  woman.  Her  career  is 
proof  of  the  chance  which  is  open  to  every 
woman  in  the  theatre,  provided  she  has  ability, 
an  honest  desire  to  succeed,  and  the  patience 
and  perseverance  necessary  to  win  recognition. 
Ruth  St.  Denis  turned  out  to  be  a  dancer  in- 
stead of  an  actress,  but  with  any  such  girl 
as  she  the  result  would  have  been  the  same,  no 
matter  which  of  the  two  arts  she  had  followed. 

Among  the  crowds  which  besiege  the  offices 
of  dramatic  producers  there  is  seldom  a  can- 
didate with  the  stamina  and  determination  of 

fsl 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE  DOOR 

this  Brooklyn  girl  who  at  the  outset  had  every 
physical  disadvantage  to  contend  against.  But 
they  are  not,  as  is  so  generally  believed,  all 
romantic,  stage-struck  young  girls  and  indolent 
young  men.  From  my  talks  with  many  hun- 
dreds of  them,  and  from  reading  their  thousands 
of  appealing  letters,  I  have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  in  a  great  majority  of  cases  they 
look  upon  the  theatre  either  as  a  refuge  or  the 
"easiest  way."  Many  of  them  are  victims,  or 
at  least  think  they  are  victims,  of  the  big  and 
little  tragedies  of  life. 

Both  men  and  women  who  have  failed  in  the 
other  professions  because  of  unfitness,  laziness, 
or  lack  of  the  faculty  of  application,  turn  to  the 
stage  as  a  last  resort.  They  do  not  understand 
that  they  are  then  courting  the  most  exacting 
and  difficult  profession  of  all.  These  people 
cannot  realize  that  the  deficiencies  in  them- 
selves which  brought  about  their  previous  fail- 
ures are  almost  sure  to  be  intensified  if  they  try 
to  become  actors.  Among  them  are  young 
lawyers  grown  tired  of  prosaic  briefs,  young 
doctors  whose  fees  have  been  too  slender  or  too 
slow,  and  even  ministers  whose  emotional  ten- 
dencies have  outgrown  the  limitations  of  their 
pulpits. 

A  successful  play  which  happens  to  contain 
an  attractive  character  in  any  of  these  pro- 
fessions— I  might  give,  as  examples,  the  young 
physician  and  trained  nurse  in  my  production 

[9] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

of  "The  Boomerang" — will  persuade  many 
who  belong  actually  to  such  professions  that 
they  could  have  played  the  role  just  as  well. 
But  to  be  a  holy  man,  for  instance,  and  to 
compel  a  theatre  audience  to  believe  you  are 
a  holy  man,  are  two  quite  different  things. 

Domestic  difficulty  drives  many  restless 
women  to  the  stage  door  of  the  theatre.  They 
turn  to  it  impulsively  as  a  refuge  from  dis- 
content. Occasionally  I  have  run  across  one 
among  them  whose  ambition  has  not  been 
mistaken,  for  suffering  is  the  hard  school 
which  develops  the  deeper  emotions  in  men 
and  women.  I  do  not  mean  to  confuse  these 
unfortimates  with  the  victims  of  divorce  courts 
who  seek  to  commercialize  notoriety  by  ex- 
hibiting themselves  in  public  places.  The 
standard  of  the  dramatic  profession  has  im- 
proved so  much  in  late  years  that  it  now  dis- 
courages such  sensationalism. 

Success,  or  what  seems  to  be  success,  in 
amateur  theatricals  also  yields  the  theatre  an 
abundant  harvest — those  who  mistake  the 
kindly  applause  of  their  friends  as  proof  that 
they  have  the  acting  gift.  The  awakening  in 
store  for  them,  when  they  are  judged  by  the 
rigid  standards  of  the  professional  stage,  is 
bitter.  Yet  from  among  these  emerges  now 
and  then  a  Mrs.  Langtry  or  a  Mrs.  Patrick 
Campbell. 

Vanity  is  one  of  the  commonest  of  the  weak- 

[lo] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

nesses  which  lead  people  to  believe  they  are 
born  to  act.  A  handsome  face  and  a  fine 
physique  are  worthless  in  the  theatre  if  they 
are  expressionless.  The  pride  of  doting  parents 
whose  children  have  won  prizes  for  reciting 
well  in  school  is  another  thing  which  helps 
to  keep  filled  the  waiting  line  at  the  stage  door. 
Among  them  may  be  the  occasional  potential 
Julia  Marlowe.  But  no  child  should  be  forced 
into  a  theatrical  career  merely  because  it  is 
precocious. 

I  have  always  found  the  humbler  byways 
of  life  the  stage's  best  recruiting-ground.  The 
shop-girl,  the  milliner,  the  girl  in  any  vocation 
which  serves  as  a  school  of  experience,  will  be 
better  equipped,  if  she  also  has  fair  intelligence 
and  ability,  for  a  career  in  the  theatre  than  the 
society  girl  who  is  the  graduate  of  a  finishing- 
school.  Drawing-room  manners  never  bring 
as  much  to  the  stage  as  the  unconscious  man- 
ners of  the  girl  in  whom  grace  is  bom.  One 
has  grace  God-given;  the  other  has  grace 
acquired.  I  can  deck  my  stage  much  better 
with  girls  from  the  milliner  shops  than  from 
the  schools  where  polite  deportment  is  taught. 

I  do  not  mean  that  education  is  not  a  valu- 
able aid  to  a  career  in  the  theatre.  But  the 
education  gained  from  books,  beyond  the  fact 
that  it  sharpens  the  mental  faculties,  is  not 
indispensable.  It  is  significant — and  no  less 
true  of  the  present  than  of  the  past — that  our 

[ii] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

greatest  artists  of  the  stage  have  been  self- 
taught.  I  have  never  seen  men  or  women  bom 
with  gold  spoons  in  their  mouths  bring  much 
to  the  stage.  The  great  actors  all  came  into 
the  theatre  humbly  and  remained  humble, 
without  false  ideas  that  its  life  is  easy  or  that 
its  rewards  can  be  quickly  gained,  and  they 
came  always  out  of  instinctive  love  for  its  art. 


II 

Throughout  its  history  it  has  been  one  of  the 
unfailing  sources  of  the  theatre's  power  and 
influence  that  it  is  the  melting-pot  to  which 
all  kinds  of  people  from  all  classes  come. 
Among  all  the  arts,  the  drama  is  the  most 
democratic  and  cosmopolitan.  So  the  theatre 
must  appeal  to  every  taste  and  it  must  reflect 
all  kinds  of  life  if  it  is  to  command  that  uni- 
versal interest  which  is  essential  to  it.  This 
end  can  be  better  accomplished — indeed,  it 
can  only  be  accomplished — when  the  workers 
within  its  walls  are  themselves  a  cosmopoli- 
tan band,  without  class  distinctions  and  welded 
into  one  body  in  which  all  stand  on  the  same 
level. 

In  choosing  the  beginners  who  afterward 
have  become  successful  in  my  theatres  I  have 
never  paid  much  attention  to  physical  qualifica- 
tions. What  I  have  demanded  principally  are 
youth  and  temperament.     It  is  possible  always 

[12] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

to  train  the  voice.  Physical  imperfections  can 
usually  be  corrected.  Yet  thousands  have  ap- 
plied to  me  in  the  belief  that  with  a  pretty 
face  and  figure  they  have  already  won  half  the 
battle. 

A  very  ordinary  face  may  become  beautiful 
under  the  emotions  of  life,  whether  of  happiness 
or  of  sorrow,  and  often  the  most  beautiful  faces 
show  very  little  emotion,  whether  in  life  or 
in  the  theatre. 

Lack  of  beauty  has  not  barred  the  way  to 
fame  for  the  most  renowned  women  of  the  stage. 
Rachel,  Charlotte  Cushman,  Janauschek,  Bern- 
hardt, Duse,  Clara  Morris,  and  Mrs.  Leslie 
Carter,  among  the  great  emotional  actresses, 
were  not  beautiful  women.  Adelaide  Neilson 
was,  though  she  is  about  the  only  one  I  can 
recall.  Among  the  comediennes  Ellen  Terry 
and  Ada  Rehan  reminded  me  of  butterflies. 
They  were  charming,  but  they  were  not  beauti- 
ful. If  either  had  been  only  beautiful,  she 
would  have  had  no  face  to  glow. 

It  has  been  the  same  with  the  theatre's  great 
actors.  Kean,  McCullough,  Forrest,  Salvini, 
Coquelin,  Mansfield,  and  Forbes-Robertson 
were  not  handsome  men,  but  to  what  heights 
they  arose!  David  Warfield,  with  his  homely, 
expressive  face,  makes  a  deeper  and  truer  ap- 
peal to  women  than  all  the  Adonises  of  the 
stage  put  together. 

It  was  her  ability  to  express  vividly,  in  a  face 
[13] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

that  was  not  beautiful,  the  emotions  she  felt 
which  convinced  me,  before  I  had  ever  seen  her 
attempt  to  act,  that  Mrs.  Leslie  Carter  was 
destined  to  a  successful  career.  When  she 
first  came  to  my  attention  she  had  had  no 
training  for  the  stage,  though  as  a  young  girl 
she  had  appeared  in  a  ntimber  of  school  plays. 
She  was  bent  upon  becoming  an  actress,  but 
she  expected  to  begin  at  the  top.  She  did  not 
have  the  slightest  notion  of  what  is  demanded 
for  a  successful  career  on  the  stage.  When  I 
told  her  that  to  drill  her  would  require  years 
of  hard  work,  her  ardor  cooled  so  perceptibly 
that  I  left  her  without  any  thought  of  develop- 
ing her. 

But  the  next  time  we  met  her  attitude  had 
undergone  a  great  change.  She  was  then 
in  the  midst  of  domestic  difficulties.  The 
theatre  was  no  longer  a  plaything  to  her,  but 
a  means  of  earning  a  living.  I  was  at  that  time 
— in  the  late  'eighties — in  a  secluded  place  in 
the  country,  hard  at  work  with  William  C. 
De  Mille  on  the  writing  of  "The  Charity  Ball," 
and  we  had  directed  that  our  whereabouts  be 
kept  unknown. 

Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Carter  found  me  out  and 
caught  me  unawares.  She  fairly  overwhelmed 
me  with  tears  and  entreaties.  I  did  the  best 
I  could  to  make  plausible  excuses,  explaining 
that  the  play  Mr.  De  Mille  and  I  were  writing 
for  the  Lyceum  Theatre  Company  required  all 

[14] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

my  time.  There  she  sat,  with  eyes  fixed  upon 
me  which  expressed  more  than  her  torrents  of 
words.  As  she  begged  my  assistance  her 
voice  and  face  grew  eloquent,  and  when  she 
began  to  tell  of  her  domestic  troubles  her  man- 
ner became  almost  tragic.  Nothing  about  her 
was  beautiful  or  even  pretty,  but  the  radiance 
of  her  features,  the  eloquence  of  her  soul,  and 
the  magnetism  of  her  highly  keyed,  tempera- 
mental nature  convinced  me  then  and  there 
that  she  would  go  far,  if  only  her  natural 
abilities  could  be  developed  and  controlled. 

To  completely  assure  myself,  I  told  her  to 
memorize  emotional  scenes  from  certain  stand- 
ard plays,  and  I  returned  to  New  York  to  hear 
her  recite  them.  Standing  on  the  stage  before 
me,  her  natural  grace  entirely  left  her  and  she 
became  rigidly  self-conscious  and  awkward. 
It  was  plain  that  she  must  undergo  much 
training  and  development,  though  the  instinct 
to  act  and  the  ability  to  express  emotions  she 
felt  were  still  there.  There  was  always,  too, 
her  dogged  desire  to  succeed. 

So  we  went  to  work  together.  One  deficiency 
after  another  was  detected  and  corrected.  I 
have  never  seen  a  more  tireless  or  persistent 
worker.  By  the  end  of  another  year  she  was 
ready  to  appear  in  "The  Ugly  Duckling"  and 
conquer,  by  the  sheer  strength  of  her  natural 
acting,  a  public  which  at  first  was  inclined  to  be 
hostile  toward  her.  The  prestige  which  Mrs. 
2  [15I 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

Carter  afterward  gained  as  the  emotional 
heroines  in  "The  Heart  of  Maryland,"  "Zaza," 
"Du  Barry,"  and  "Adrea"  every  one  knows. 
The  secret  of  her  success  was  wilHngness  to  work 
and  pluck,  plus  the  imagination  and  natiiral 
talent  she  brought  with  her  into  the  theatre. 

Mrs.  Carter's  career  is  exceptional  in  our 
theatres.  She  is  one  of  the  few  examples  I 
know  of  women  who  have  begun  at  the  top, 
yet  have  succeeded.  Another  such  example 
is  furnished  by  the  comparatively  short  but 
brilliant  career  of  Mary  Anderson.  What  both 
of  these  women  have  done,  each  in  her  own  way, 
would  be  folly  for  almost  any  one  else  to 
attempt  to  follow.  They  illustrate,  however, 
what  may  be  accomplished  in  the  theatre 
through  determination,  labor,  and  perseverance. , 

The  possibility  of  succeeding  on  the  stage 
in  spite  of  seemingly  physical  disqualification 
is  no  better  proved  than  by  Robert  Taber's 
triumph  over  a  deformity  which  thousands  who 
have  seen  him  act  must  have  failed  to  detect. 
A  good  many  years  ago,  when  I  was  associated 
with  Franklin  Sargent's  dramatic  school,  a 
young  man  came  to  ask  if  I  thought  it  possible 
for  him  to  become  an  actor.  He  walked  with 
a  limp,  for  one  of  his  legs  had  become  shortened 
from  an  illness  he  had  suffered  in  childhood. 
The  heavy-soled  shoe  he  wore  did  not  correct 
the  deformity,  and  one  of  his  shoulders  drooped 
below  the  level  of  the  other.     His  general  ap- 

f  i6l 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

pearance  was  that  of  an  invalid.  But  the  ear- 
nestness of  his  appeal  awakened  my  interest. 
I  asked  him  to  read  for  me,  and  the  scenes 
from  some  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  which  he 
had  at  his  tongue's  end,  soon  led  me  to  see 
that  he  had  the  spark  of  genius. 

I  explained  the  physical  disadvantages  which 
stood  in  the  way  of  his  ambition,  but  told  him 
that  with  patient  endeavor  it  might  be  pos- 
sible to  overcome  them.  A  routine  of  calis- 
thenic  exercises  was  prescribed  for  him  and  he 
followed  it  faithfully  through  an  entire  year. 
His  body  began  to  strengthen  slowly,  he  gradu- 
ally acquired  grace  and  poise.  I  advised  him 
to  have  a  surgical  shoe  made  with  the  inner 
sole  raised  so  that  his  shortened  leg  would  not 
be  noticed.  Meanwhile  his  poetic  nature  deep- 
ened, his  romantic  style  broadened,  and  the 
promise  I  had  at  first  detected  in  him  began  to 
develop. 

As  leading  actor  for  Julia  Marlowe,  whom 
he  afterward  married,  Robert  Taber  became 
one  of  the  most  finished  and  magnetic  actors 
in  romantic  characters  of  his  day.  He  went  to 
England  and  won  even  greater  success  in 
Henry  Irving's  company.  But  his  physical 
frailty  could  not  endure  the  trying  life  of  the 
theatre.  He  died  when  still  a  young  man.  He 
is  another  example  of  what  iron  determination 
can  achieve  for  those  who  enter  the  profession 
of  the  theatre  with  honest  motives. 

[i7l 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

Even  age  need  not  be  a  bar  to  ultimate  suc- 
cess on  the  stage,  although,  since  I  prefer  to 
train,  myself,  the  people  who  appear  in  my 
plays,  I  am  always  inclined  to  scrutinize  ap- 
plicants for  theatrical  positions  with  reference 
to  their  youth.  Some  actors  do  not  "find 
themselves"  until  comparatively  late  in  their 
careers.  There  is  the  case  of  David  Warfield. 
My  association  with  him,  which  resulted  in  his 
turning  to  serious  roles,  did  not  begin  until 
he  had  already  won  notable  success  as  an  im- 
personator of  humorous,  eccentric  types  in 
the  uproarious  field  of  burlesque  and  musical 
comedy. 

When  I  returned  to  New  York  in  1900,  after 
presenting  Mrs.  Carter  in  London  in  "Zaza," 
I  decided  to  add  an  emotional  male  actor  to 
my  list  of  stars.  Mrs.  Carter  was  then  ap- 
proaching her  zenith  in  pyrotechnical  charac- 
ters, and  Blanche  Bates,  another  young  star, 
was  very  popular  in  plays  which  breathed  the 
buoyancy  and  freedom  of  out-of-door  life. 
But  I  had  no  distinguished  man  on  whom  I 
could  rely  for  a  certain  kind  of  plays  I  was 
anxious  to  produce. 

I,  of  course,  had  known  Warfield.  He  came, 
originally,  from  San  Francisco,  my  native  city. 
The  first  time  I  ever  saw  him  he  was  standing 
on  a  soap-box,  reciting  verses  to  a  street  crowd. 
He  afterward  became  an  impersonator  of  He- 
brew types  in  various  companies,  and  finally 

[18] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

joined  Weber  and  Fields's  burlesque  organiza- 
tion, which  was  then  in  its  heyday.  I  recalled 
how  once,  in  a  broad  burlesque  of  Annie 
Russell's  "Catherine,"  I  had  observed  an  up- 
roarious audience  quiet  down  to  serious  atten- 
tion under  the  influence  of  his  wistful  expression 
and  the  curious  note  of  pathos  in  his  voice. 

Mr.  Warfield  was  then  appearing  in  "Bar- 
bara Fidgety,"  a  travesty  of  Julia  Marlowe's 
play,  "Barbara  Frietchie,"  which  Clyde  Fitch 
wrote.  At  the  music-hall  one  night  I  again 
noted  his  peculiar  influence  over  the  audience  in 
a  mock-pathetic  episode  in  the  piece.  It  oc- 
curred to  me  instantly  that  in  him  lay  the 
greatest  potentialities  as  an  emotional  star. 
When  we  joined  our  artistic  fortunes  a  season 
later  my  selection  of  him  was  received  generally 
with  derision. 

Other  managers  could  not  imagine  Warfield 
as  anything  but  a  comic  actor.  But  two  char- 
acters, Anton  Von  Barwig,  in  "The  Music 
Master,"  and  Peter  Grimm,  in  "The  Return 
of  Peter  Grimm,"  have  proved  how  great  was 
the  genius  that  had  been  stifled  up  to  that  time. 

So  age,  though  it  is  one  of  the  most  sinister 
enemies  to  the  actor's  art,  cannot  actually  de- 
feat his  ambition.  If  great  ability  in  hidden 
lines  be  bom  in  him,  it  must  some  day  make 
itself  known. 

The  special  ability  and  honest  desire  to  suc- 
ceed which  have  brought  to  fame  these  excep- 

[19] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

tional  men  and  women  to  whom  I  have  referred 
I,  of  course,  do  not  expect  to  find  even  in  a 
very  small  minority  of  the  applicants  who 
come  knocking  at  the  stage  door  of  the  theatre 
or  who  send  me  their  letters  burdened  with 
stories  of  hopes  and  ambitions.  The  great 
majority  of  them,  I  find,  have  yielded  to  passing 
impulse  or  have  entirely  mistaken  what  they 
think  is  the  mission  which  nature  intended  for 
them. 

Nevertheless,  as  I  always  have  a  nimiber  of 
plays  in  preparation,  I  must  ever  be  on  the 
lookout  for  chance  talent.  I  make  it  a  point 
to  see  as  many  would-be  actors  as  my  time 
permits.  It  does  not  take  very  long  for  me  to 
gain  a  fairly  accurate  idea  of  their  motives  and 
possibilities.  I  allow  them  to  talk,  and  mean- 
while I  note  the  quality  of  their  voices  and 
watch  the  expression  of  their  faces.  If  they 
feel  character  at  all — that  is,  if  they  have 
temperament — I  can  invariably  tell  whether  it 
is  comic,  emotional,  or  tragic. 

I  cross-examine  them  in  an  effort  to  surprise 
them,  and  if  I  find  they  are  pliable  and  quick 
at  grasping  and  expressing  a  suggested  mood, 
I  endeavor  to  interest  myself  in  them.  They 
may  become  useful  to  me,  even  if  I  have  noth- 
ing in  prospect  for  them  at  the  moment. 

The  theatrical  profession,  like  the  others,  is 
crowded,  but  there  is  room  in  it  for  all.  I  have 
sometimes  talked  to  a  hundred  fairly  experi- 

[20] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

enced  actors  and  actresses,  looked  through  the 
casts  of  all  the  ciirrent  plays,  and  ransacked 
the  small  stock  companies  and  vaudeville 
houses  in  a  search  for  a  person  with  peculiar 
qualifications  needed  for  a  role  I  may  have  in 
mind,  and  then  have  blundered  upon  just  the 
right  person  in  some  complete  stranger  among 
the  applicants  in  my  waiting-room. 

Next  to  ability  I  look  for  sincerity  in  the 
people  I  take  into  my  companies.  If  I  give 
my  time  to  developing  and  rehearsing  them  for 
parts,  however  small,  I  must  feel  that  I  can 
depend  upon  them  absolutely.  Like  all  other 
producers,  I  have  sometimes  been  a  victim  of 
ingratitude,  which  is  my  synonym  for  the  so- 
called  "artistic  temperament";  but  usually 
my  confidence  has  not  been  misplaced. 

The  enviable  place  which  Frances  Starr  holds 
in  the  affections  of  a  great  public  is  the  best 
illustration  I  can  furnish  of  the  advantages 
which  may  come  to  a  young  player  from  having 
won  the  complete  confidence  of  her  manager. 
She  is  about  the  best  example  I  can  recall  of 
an  actress  in  whom  are  combined  the  five 
all-important  factors — ability,  imagination,  in- 
dustry, patience,  and  loyalty. 

I  was  on  the  lookout,  as  usual,  for  talent 
for  my  stage,  when  one  night,  a  number  of 
years  ago,  I  happened  to  visit  a  modest  stock 
company  in  New  York.  At  once  my  attention 
was  attracted  by  an  alert  young  girl  with  a 

I21I 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

finely  formed,  expressive  face  and  pretty,  girl- 
ish figure.  I  noticed  the  peculiar  effect  of  her 
charm  upon  the  audience  the  moment  she  came 
on  the  stage.  Reference  to  the  program  told 
me  she  was  Miss  Starr. 

There  was  no  place  for  her  in  any  of  my  plays 
at  that  time,  but  a  season  or  two  later,  when 
I  needed  a  new  actress  for  the  r61e  of  Helen 
Stanton  in  "The  Music  Master,"  I  searched 
again  for  this  young  girl  who  had  impressed 
me  so  favorably  at  first  sight.  I  found  her  in  a 
comedy  called  "Gallops,"  and  I  went  again  to 
see  her  perform.  In  one  scene  the  changing 
incidents  of  a  horse-race  had  to  be  made  known 
to  the  audience  by  the  exclamations  of  an  ex- 
cited party  on  top  of  a  coach.  Miss  Starr,  who 
was  impersonating  the  heroine  whose  lover  had 
staked  his  all  on  the  result  of  the  race,  stood 
below  them  on  the  step  of  the  coach.  It  was 
her  business  to  impress  her  hopes  and  fears  in 
pantomime.  She  did  not  speak  a  word  through- 
out the  scene,  but  so  perfectly  did  her  face 
indicate  every  emotion  she  was  supposed  to 
feel  that  I  realized  much  more  clearly  than  be- 
fore how  great  must  be  her  imaginative  faculty 
and  sensitiveness.  That  night  I  sent  word  to 
her  to  come  to  see  me  next  day. 

Long  before  I  arrived  at  my  office  next  morn- 
ing Miss  Starr  was  there.  I  saw  at  once  that 
she  was  eager  and  determined  to  get  ahead. 
When  I  told  her  I  could  use  her  she  was  willing 

[22] 


David  Belasco  Giving'  Stage  Directions  to  Frances  Starr  in 
a  Rehearsal  During  the  Run  of  "  Marie-Odile " 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

to  sign  a  contract  at  once,  irrespective  of  the 
part  I  might  put  her  in ;  but  I  advised  her  not 
to  be  impulsive,  but  to  consider  the  matter 
carefu^'y  until  the  following  day.  I  wanted 
her  to  be  sure  she  would  not  change  her  mind, 
for  I  knew  that  other  managers  could  offer  her 
better  terms  at  the  moment  than  I. 

The  contract,  signed,  came  back  to  me  next 
day.  A  long  time  afterward  Miss  Starr  told 
me  she  had  stopped  on  her  way  home  that 
same  morning  and  put  her  name  to  it.  From 
that  hour  her  loyalty  to  me  has  been  absolute 
and  her  effort  to  meet  every  demand  I  have 
placed  on  her  has  been  indomitable.  Such 
fidelity  to  my  interests  I  could  not  fail  to 
appreciate  and  reward. 

Long  before  the  end  of  "The  Music  Master" 
tour  I  had  begun  to  look  for  a  play  containing 
a  suitable  and  better  part  for  her.  Her  grace- 
ful bearing,  lithe  figure,  arched  neck  and  dark, 
dancing  eyes  suggested  that  she  might  play  a 
Spanish  character  well.  How  "The  Rose  of 
the  Rancho,"  which  Richard  Walton  Tully  had 
originally  written  under  the  title  of  "  Juanita," 
was  changed  to  suit  the  needs  of  this  young 
actress  I  shall  describe  in  another  chapter. 
When  I  came  to  produce  the  play  I  found  that 
every  estimate  I  had  made  of  Miss  Starr  had 
been  correct,  for  it  quickly  set  her  among  the 
stars.  Since  then,  the  salary  I  paid  her  in  the 
beginning  has  been  doubled,  redoubled,  and 

[23] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

doubled  again,  and  this,  too,  without  so  much 
as  a  scratch  of  a  pen  between  us.  No  written 
agreement  is  necessary  to  make  me  absolutely 
certain  of  Miss  Starr's  willingness  to  attempt 
whatever  I  may  ask  of  her. 

Other  actresses,  if  they  had  been  cast  in  the 
long  succession  of  unsympathetic  characters  in 
which  I  have  placed  Miss  Starr,  would  surely 
have  been  lured  away  by  the  tempting  offers 
and  promises  which  other  managers  and  the 
"movie"  manufacturers  have  made  to  her. 
Her  head  has  never  been  turned  by  them. 
Success  has  never  affected  her  industry  or 
loyalty.  Her  versatility  has  expanded,  her 
artistic  strength  has  increased,  and  she  has 
gone  forward,  winning  the  affection  of  an  ever- 
increasing  public,  until  now,  in  her  own  right, 
she  occupies  a  place  in  the  native  theatre 
which  might  well  be  the  envy  of  any  actress. 
I  could  afford  to  give  all  my  energy  in  her 
behalf,  for  I  have  been  positive  all  along  that 
our  artistic  partnership  would  be  permanent. 


Ill 

It  has  been  my  experience  that  where  one 
actor  or  actress  goes  ahead  in  the  theatre, 
gaining  that  coveted  asset,  the  public's  interest 
and  affection,  a  hundred  others  will  fail,  even 
though  they  may  have  great  potential  ability. 

Men  and  women  alike,  they  cannot  stand 
[24] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

applause.  It  is  amazing  what  vanity,  indo- 
lence, and  cocksureness  a  little  passing  adula- 
tion will  breed  even  in  comparative  beginners 
on  the  stage.  They  do  not  stop  to  consider 
how  much  they  owe  to  the  weeks  of  constant 
rehearsal  by  which  they  are  taught  to  speak 
their  lines  as  parrots  learn  to  talk,  or  to  the 
chance  opportunity  of  some  lucky  little  scrap 
of  brilliant  dialogue  which  any  other  person 
might  have  spoken  just  as  well.  Indiscriminate, 
complimentary  criticism  in  the  press  puffs  them 
up  and  the  deluded  creatures  even  begin  to 
take  seriously  the  laudatory  paragraphs  sent 
out  about  them  by  the  press  agent.  Soon  they 
become  the  insufferable  victims  of  that  self- 
satisfaction  which  is  the  greatest  danger  that 
menaces  the  actor. 

Then,  again,  there  are  conditions  peculiar 
to  the  dramatic  profession  which  are  a  constant 
temptation  to  indolence  and  which  only  those 
with  the  strongest  wills  can  resist.  When  a 
play  becomes  established  for  a  long  run  in  a 
large  city  or  starts  out  on  an  extended  tour,  the 
actors  necessarily  have  a  good  deal  of  unoc- 
cupied time  on  their  hands.  If  they  belonged 
to  any  other  of  the  artistic  professions  than  the 
stage  they  would  realize  that  they  must  util- 
ize such  opportunities  for  study.  The  painter 
must  learn  to  mix  his  colors  and  cultivate  his 
eye  and  hand  by  constant  practice.  The  sculp- 
tor must  learn  to  use  his  tools.     The  writer 

[25] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

must  write  and  revise  through  solitary  hours 
of  grinding  labor. 

But  the  young  actor  quickly  gets  an  idea 
that  if  only  he  brings  his  body  into  the  theatre 
he  has  done  his  full  duty.  He  thinks  all  that 
is  necessary  is  to  walk  out  on  the  stage,  strut 
for  three  hours,  bow  to  the  audience,  and  then 
get  away  as  soon  as  possible.  It  never  occurs 
to  him  that  he  ought  to  work  eight  or  ten 
hours  a  day,  the  same  as  people  who  follow  the 
other  professions — that  this  is  what  he  is  paid 
to  do. 

Going  through  the  same  part  night  after 
night,  for  months,  perhaps,  saps  his  ambition, 
and  if  the  part  he  is  playing  is  popular  and  the 
audiences  applaud,  it  swells  his  self -content- 
ment. So  he  is  soon  idling  away  in  clubs  and 
restaurants  the  night  hours  after  the  perform- 
ance which  should  be  devoted  to  sleep.  He 
lies  abed  half  the  day  when  he  ought  to  be  im- 
proving himself  physically  and  mentally.  He 
may  keep  his  morals  beyond  reproach,  but  he 
is  cultivating  an  attitude  toward  life  and  his 
profession  which  in  the  end  means  certain  dis- 
aster to  the  fine  hopes  he  had  when  he  first 
decided  to  become  an  actor. 

When  young  actors  and  actresses  are  setting 
out  on  their  careers,  especially  if  they  are  be- 
ginning to  make  progress,  it  is  also  hard  for 
them  to  resist  well-meant  social  attentions. 
They  become,  at  once,  public  personages,  in  a 

[26  1 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

way.  The  young  painter  or  sculptor,  on  the 
other  hand,  may  work  for  years  without  per- 
sonally being  sought  after  by  others.  The 
beautiful  young  actress  with  charm  of  manner 
is  always  wanted  at  teas  and  parties  and 
dances,  and  the  equally  engaging  young  actor 
finds  a  swarm  of  sentimental  women  flocking 
after  him  to  decorate  their  drawing-rooms. 

It  is  hard,  of  course,  for  them  to  deny  them- 
selves these  pleasant  diversions,  but  all  such 
things  consume  precious  time  and,  more  pre- 
cious still,  the  energy  which  should  be  devoted 
to  the  theatre  and  their  work.  Soon  you  find 
them  accepting  roles  which  are  only  types  and 
therefore  can  be  acted  without  the  expense 
of  real  effort  or  the  exercise  of  real  ability. 
Meanwhile  the  time  of  youth,  the  actor's 
golden  opportunity,  is  slipping  away.  Before 
the  awakening  comes,  if  it  ever  does,  his  chance 
is  gone. 

If  substantial  and  permanent  success  is  to 
come  to  any  player,  it  will  be  gained  only  by 
subordinating  all  social  pleasures  and  personal 
convenience  to  persistent  work.  Of  the  scores, 
maybe  hundreds,  to  whose  stories  of  ambition 
I  have  listened  and  taken  into  my  companies, 
only  those  who  have  appreciated  this  fact  from 
the  beginning  have  arrived  anywhere  in  the  pro- 
fession. But  the  progress  of  these  few  has  been 
almost  invariable.  Some  may  not  have  made 
brilliant  names  for  themselves;    great  distinc- 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

tion  in  any  artistic  calling  is  in  store  only  for 
the  exceptional  small  minority.  The  honest 
workers,  however,  have  given  good  accoimts  of 
themselves.  They  have  found  that  the  theatre 
can  provide  a  congenial,  satisfactory  career  and 
they  have  been  rewarded  with  popularity, 
prosperity,  and  happiness. 

But  they  have  also  found  the  theatre  to  be 
the  hardest  of  taskmasters.  Every  hour  in  the 
day  something  can  be  done  for  self -improve- 
ment, for  the  time  devoted  to  the  actor's  ap- 
pearance before  an  audience  should  be  a  com- 
paratively insignificant  part  of  his  day's  work. 
Great  help  may  be  gained  from  rehearsals, 
not  only  by  going  through  the  part  he  is  to 
play,  but  in  watching  the  training  of  all  the 
others. 

In  every  company  is  a  man  or  woman  of  wide 
experience  and  fine  gifts  whose  methods  may 
be  profitably  studied.  Having  seen  these  ac- 
complish a  striking  bit  of  impersonation  and 
having  heard  the  instructions  of  the  stage 
director,  the  beginner  who  expects  sometime 
to  act  as  well  should  go  to  his  home  or  lodging 
and  try  to  reach  the  same  results  himself.  For 
the  best  place  to  learn  the  art  of  the  theatre 
is  the  theatre.  I  have  always  had  a  good 
opinion  of  dramatic  schools,  if  the  instruction 
is  competent,  but  it  is  only  on  the  practical 
stage  that  real  experience  is  gained.  An  actor 
might  spend  half  his  life  in  a  dramatic  academy 

[28  1 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

and  yet  fail  dismally  when  he  appears  before  a 
real  audience. 

There  would  be  quick  improvement  in  our 
acting  art  if  the  younger  members  of  the  pro- 
fession spent  the  money  for  vocal  instruction 
that  they  waste  on  pretty  hats  and  frocks.  A 
change  for  the  better  would  soon  come  if  the 
time  that  is  frittered  away  in  idleness,  social 
pleasures,  and  dissipation  were  devoted  to 
healthful  physical  exercise  in  the  open  air. 

The  actor  ought  to  expect  to  study  as  much 
as  the  people  of  the  other  professions.  He 
should  learn  fencing,  dancing,  and  singing,  ac- 
quire a  knowledge  of  the  languages,  and  read 
standard  literature,  both  narrative  and  dra- 
matic. He  should  accustom  himself  to  ob- 
serve constantly  the  life  around  him,  for  those 
whose  profession  is  to  interpret  life  must  have 
an  understanding  of  human  nature.  Life  and 
character  can  be  studied  at  any  time,  in  any 
street-car,  or  in  any  crowd.  There  is  a  lesson 
to  be  learned  on  every  avenue  and  in  every 
slum. 

Above  all,  young  actors  should  go  to  the 
theatre  and  opera  as  frequently  as  they  pos- 
sibly can  and  become  acquainted  not  only  with 
the  work  of  the  successful  members  of  the  pro- 
fession, but  with  the  failures  in  it  as  well.  It 
is  amazing  what  one  can  learn  not  to  do  by 
watching  a  bad  actor  struggling  with  his  r61e. 

When  the  actor  who  is  really  anxious  to  suc- 
[29] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

ceed  follows  rigorously  such  a  course  as  this, 
he  will  be  prepared  when  the  golden  hour 
strikes.  Richard  Mansfield's  case  aptly  shows 
what  I  mean.  He  was  not  well  equipped  for 
the  stage.  Stature,  voice,  rigidity  of  manner, 
ungainly  carriage,  and  defective  eyesight — all 
these  stood  against  him.  He  had,  though,  in- 
herited a  sensitive  artistic  temperament  and 
love  of  music  from  his  mother,  who  was  a  great 
singer.  But  Mansfield  was  a  student  who  kept 
by  himself  and  refused  to  waste  his  time. 
While  others  disliked  him  as  uncompanionable 
and  mistook  the  motive  of  his  uncongenial 
habits,  he  was  really  getting  ready. 

Eventually  Mansfield  applied  for  and  was 
given  a  position  in  the  famous  old  Union 
Square  Stock  Company.  Until  that  time  he 
had  done  nothing  of  much  promise  in  the 
legitimate  theatre.  A.  M.  Palmer,  the  alert 
manager  of  the  Union  Square,  and  a  good  judge 
of  men,  was  aware  of  his  possibilities.  In  1883 
a  production  of  a  translation  of  Octave  Feuil- 
let's  play,  "A  Parisian  Romance,"  was  in 
preparation,  when  J.  H.  Stoddart,  the  leading 
actor  at  the  Union  Square,  became  dissatisfied 
with  the  role  of  Baron  Chevrial,  for  which  he 
had  been  cast,  and  threw  it  down,  declining 
emphatically  to  appear  in  it  both  as  unsuitable 
to  him  and  unworthy  of  his  abilities. 

Palmer  at  once  turned  the  part  over  to 
Mansfield,  who  had  been  rehearsing  up  to  that 

[30] 


David  Belasco  in  the  Workroom  of  His  Studio  in  the  Belasco 

Theatre,  Before  the  Fireplace  Which  Contains  Seventy-three 

Tiles  Taken  from  the  Alhambra  at  Granada,  Spain 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

time  for  the  trivial  character  of  a  young 
French  swell.  What  happened  on  the  night 
of  January  ii,  1883,  is  a  matter  of  theatrical 
history.  Mansfield  brought  a  thousand  adroit 
and  imexpected  touches  to  the  role  of  Baron 
Chevrial  which  had  promised  to  bring  nothing 
to  him.  This  performance  resulted  in  one  of 
the  most  surprising  successes  which  our  stage 
has  known,  and  the  next  morning  he  awoke  to 
find  himself  well  started  on  the  road  to  fame. 
I  do  not  think  that  Mansfield,  during  his 
spectacular  career,  accomplished  really  great 
things  for  the  theatre.  But  he  was  tireless  in 
his  industry  and  he  always  did  little  things  in 
a  big  way. 

Far  back  in  the  days  of  "The  Highest 
Bidder"  and  "The  Prisoner  of  Zenda"  there 
was  no  actor  in  greater  social  demand  in 
New  York  than  E.  H.  Sothem.  The  adulation 
he  received  from  the  feminine  matinee  crowd 
was  enough  to  turn  completely  the  head  of  any 
star.  Yet  Sothem  resolutely  avoided  his  silly 
worshipers  and  kept  at  his  books.  He  knew 
the  days  of  the  matinee  idol  are  ninnbered. 
His  tastes  were  in  the  direction  of  classic  drama, 
and  he  diligently  studied  his  Shakespeare. 
When  maturer  years  came  and  other  matinee 
idols  arose  in  his  place,  he  was  prepared  to 
begin  his  creditable  career  as  an  actor  of  the 
greatest  poetic  roles  in  English  dramatic 
literature. 
3  [31] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE    DOOR 

The  lonely  life  of  the  student  is  only  one  of 
many  things  which  any  player  who  resolves  to 
climb  must  expect  to  give  to  the  theatre.  A 
career  on  the  stage  means  a  nomadic  existence, 
whether  he  is  successful  or  not.  So  in  the 
veins  of  the  actor  should  always  flow  a  few 
drops  of  gipsy  blood.  He  is  not  a  citizen  of  a 
definite  locality,  but  a  wanderer  among  many 
places. 

The  necessity  of  almost  constant  travel  is 
one  of  the  unavoidable  hardships  which  the 
theatre  imposes,  and  at  the  same  time  one  of 
its  destructive  influences.  The  people  in  other 
professions  may  become  fixed  members  of  the 
community  of  their  choice,  where  they  may 
establish  permanent  homes  and  regulate  the 
conditions  of  domestic  life.  Then  they  be- 
come in  a  measure  responsible  to  the  people 
around  them,  which  exercises  a  restraining 
influence  upon  conduct.  The  actor,  no  matter 
how  pronounced  may  be  his  success,  cannot  ex- 
pect to  confine  his  work  to  a  single  stage.  The 
play  must  go  everywhere.  The  greater  its  suc- 
cess the  longer  the  stretches  of  travel  over 
which  it  leads  its  company. 

So  the  actor  cannot  expect  to  settle  down 
in  the  real  sense  of  the  term,  and  he  must  forgo 
many  of  the  advantages  and  comforts  of  a  re- 
tired domestic  life.  Matrimony  in  his  case, 
therefore,  becomes  always  a  dangerous  ex- 
periment. 

[32] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

I  do  not  mean  that  there  are  not  happy 
marriages  among  the  people  of  the  stage. 
There  are  plenty  of  them.  But  in  spite  of  the 
proverb,  absence  does  not  always  tend  to  make 
the  heart  grow  fonder,  and  in  the  theatre 
separations  of  the  members  of  the  domestic 
household  for  long  periods  are  inevitable. 

It  is  not  well  for  an  ambitious  young  actress 
to  encumber  herself  with  a  sweetheart  or  a 
husband,  especially  in  the  early  period  of  her 
career.  She  will  go  farther  if  she  travels  alone, 
for  no  woman  can  be  the  mistress  of  a  home  or 
the  mother  of  a  family  and  at  the  same  time 
devote  the  time  and  attention  to  work  in  the 
theatre  which  success  demands.  Eventually 
she  will  find  herself  relinquishing  one  in  favor 
of  the  other,  and  at  this  point  disaster  threat- 
ens. Besides,  if  the  husband  she  takes  hap- 
pens to  be  an  actor,  which  is  of  course  likely, 
there  is  always  the  danger  of  artistic  rivalry, 
with  its  almost  certain  aftermath  of  jealousy. 
There  cannot  be  two  geniuses  in  one  family, 
if  perfect  peace  is  to  reign. 

Whether  marriage  dilutes  the  romantic  in- 
terest which  the  public  takes  in  its  stage  favor- 
ites is  always  an  open  question.  That  may 
depend  somewhat  upon  the  kind  of  plays  in 
which  the  actor  or  actress  appears.  Yet  I  would 
advise  the  player  of  either  sex  whose  profes- 
sional ambitions  are  strong  to  avoid  alliances  of 
any  kind  that  tend  to  divide  the  affections. 

[33] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

There  are  compensations  in  a  successful 
theatrical  career  for  the  domestic  self-sacrifice 
it  exacts.  In  no  other  calling  is  merit  so 
quickly  detected  or  so  richly  rewarded — or, 
alas!  so  soon  forgotten.  Of  the  rewards,  the 
greatest  is  the  personal  satisfaction  which 
comes  with  the  consciousness  of  having  ful- 
filled an  artistic  ideal.  Such  exultation,  which 
is  priceless  because  it  cannot  be  bought,  is  a 
part  of  the  instinct  of  the  true  artist.  It  is 
felt  by  the  player  no  less  than  by  the  workers 
in  the  other  artistic  professions,  but  with  this 
difference,  that  the  player  always  has  tangible 
proof  of  the  success  of  what  he  is  attempting 
to  do  in  the  applause  and  response  of  his 
audience.  It  is  the  happy  fortune  of  the  actor 
that  the  public  does  not  wait  until  he  is  dead 
to  decide  the  value  of  the  work  he  has 
performed. 

The  material  reward  of  the  actor  is  also  high. 
The  success  of  the  work  he  does  may  be  the 
result  of  the  weeks  of  drill  he  has  received  from 
others,  but  nevertheless  he  gets  the  pay,  revels 
in  the  applause,  and  yet  assumes  none  of  the 
financial  risk  of  the  enterprises  in  which  he  is 
concerned.  I  know  of  no  other  profession  in 
which  the  scale  of  salaries  has  so  rapidly  in- 
creased. In  the  earlier  day  of  the  theatre, 
when  no  man  or  woman  entered  its  stage  door 
because  he  or  she  considered  it  the  "easiest 
way,"  its  great  artists  received  no  pay  at  all. 

[34] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

What  they  got  in  return  was  their  love  for  its 
work  and  their  satisfaction  in  its  accompHsh- 
ment.  An  only  ordinary  actor  nowadays  earns 
twenty  times  as  much  money  compensation  as 
a  genius  of  the  past,  and  he  also  expects  much 
more  consideration.  I  do  not  believe  equal 
good  fortune  extends  to  the  other  arts  and 
professions. 

Whenever  any  young  person,  especially  a 
young  woman,  shows  an  inclination  to  go  on 
the  stage,  the  question  of  her  moral  welfare 
instantly  rises.  Let  the  same  young  woman, 
with  equally  good  intentions,  decide  to  enter 
some  other  professional  calling  or  take  up  a 
business  career,  and  the  matter  of  morals  is 
never  brought  into  consideration. 

The  theatre  has  its  temptations,  but  so  has 
the  studio,  or  factory,  or  shop,  or  any  other 
vocation  in  which  an  unprotected  woman  may 
be  placed.  Girls  have  been  known  to  make 
missteps  even  in  the  home  where  they  are  safe- 
guarded on  every  side.  If  any  young  woman 
has  the  honest  desire  to  do  right  and  the  will 
to  command  the  respect  of  others  and  preserve 
her  own  self-respect,  I  think  she  is  probably  as 
safe  in  the  theatre  as  anywhere  else.  Of  course 
she  will  be  subject  to  temptation,  but  the  in- 
fluences which  will  threaten  her  are  more  likely 
to  come  from  without  the  theatre  than  from 
within. 

The  disadvantage  at  which  she  is  always 
[35] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

placed  is  that  she  becomes  at  once  a  more  or  less 
public  personage  and  must  endure  the  idle, 
baseless  gossip  that  meddles  in  the  affairs  of  all 
other  people  similarly  placed.  I  have  known 
thousands  of  men  and  women  of  the  theatre 
whose  lives  have  been  beyond  suspicion  or  re- 
proach ;  the  ones  who  have  gone  downward  are, 
after  all,  in  a  small  minority,  and  the  proportion 
just  about  corresponds  to  the  relative  good  and 
bad  in  human  nature  generally. 

The  trouble  is  that  the  moralists  who  are  so 
constantly  worried  about  the  snares  in  the  path 
of  the  people  of  the  stage  in  most  cases  know 
little  or  nothing  of  the  inside  of  the  theatre. 
The  press  helps  to  spread  the  mistaken  notion 
that  the  normal  life  of  the  actor  must  be  the 
gay  life.  The  victims  of  the  daily  routine  of 
the  police  courts  are  always  ready  to  classify 
themselves  as  "actresses."  Whenever  their 
records  are  investigated  it  is  discovered,  in 
seven  cases  out  of  ten,  or  even  more,  that  they 
have  no  connection  with  the  theatre  whatever. 
They  are  taken  at  their  word  and  thus  the 
decent  people  of  an  honorable  calling  are  for- 
ever being  smirched.  The  conclusion  follows, 
therefore,  that  dissipation  is  more  prevalent 
among  stage  people  than  in  the  other  pro- 
fessions. 

The  girl  who  goes  into  the  theatre  with 
honest  intent  will  have  no  time  for  dissipation. 
The  other  players  with  whom  she  will  associate 

[36] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

will  not  tolerate  conduct  that  is  unseemly. 
Outside  the  theatre  she  is  liable  to  meet  with 
the  lures  that  are  constantly  set  for  any  un- 
protected girl  in  the  life  of  our  great  cities,  but 
whether  she  resists  or  succumbs  to  them  de- 
pends upon  herself  alone.  If  fall  she  will,  the 
descent  in  the  department  store  or  the  office 
building  is  quite  as  convenient  and  swift. 

On  the  other  hand,  no  woman  can  be  a  prude 
in  the  theatre.  She  cannot  run  home  to  her 
mother  if  everything  does  not  go  to  her  liking. 
She  must  learn  to  take  a  broad  and  liberal 
view  of  its  peculiar  and  unconventional  life 
and  of  people  and  things  around  her,  and  to 
bear  with  fortitude  the  disappointments  which 
are  sure  to  fall  to  her  lot.  She  will  need  cour- 
age, stamina,  and  a  reasonable  amount  of  phi- 
losophy. If  she  have  the  instinct  of  self- 
protection  and  the  determination  to  do  right, 
there  is  no  doubt  she  will  come  through  her 
experiences  without  contamination. 

If  as  much  were  known  of  the  rough  road  of 
the  theatre  as  of  the  other  professions,  I  do  not 
think  so  many  people  would  surrender  to  the 
craving  to  try  to  become  actors.  At  least  more 
would  consider  the  step  very  seriously  before 
they  present  themselves  at  the  manager's  office 
or  the  stage  door.  Though  the  mail  never 
ceases  to  bring  its  burden  of  applications,  I  try 
to  make  it  a  point  never  to  leave  a  letter  un- 
answered.   At  such  times  I  do  not  fail  to  recall 

[37] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

an  experience  of  my  own  long  ago,  when  my 
career  in  the  theatre  was  just  beginning  in 
CaHfomia. 

Though  still  a  young  lad,  I  had  played  small 
parts  in  traveling  companies  up  and  down  the 
Pacific  coast,  and  followed  the  hard  life  of  the 
strolling  actor  in  Virginia  City  and  among  the 
lawless  mining-camps  of  Idaho.  But  I  knew 
all  the  time  that  this  experience  would  not  take 
me  far,  and  a  great  desire  seized  me  to  go  back 
to  San  Francisco  so  that  I  might  study  the 
famous  stars  who  came  regularly  to  the  old 
California  Theatre,  which  was  then  at  the 
height  of  its  prestige. 

Soon  after  I  arrived  Lawrence  Barrett  came 
to  the  California  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
try  for  a  place,  however  obscure  it  might  be, 
in  his  company.  I  spent  a  week  composing 
the  letter  in  which  I  asked  him  to  hear  me 
recite.  I  poured  my  whole  soul  into  the  story 
of  my  ambitions.  Then  I  waited,  eagerly  at 
first,  finally  in  utter  dejection,  for  the  reply 
which  was  never  to  come. 

In  the  following  year  I  returned  to  San 
Francisco  and  saw  John  McCullough  act 
Virginius  at  the  same  theatre.  His  emotional 
power  was  so  tremendous  and  real  that  I  sum- 
moned all  the  courage  there  was  in  me  and 
asked  him  if  he  could  spare  the  time  to  hear 
me  recite.  That  same  afternoon  I  got  his  re- 
ply, promising  to  listen  to  me  for  half  an  hour 

[38] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

at  the  theatre  on  the  following  Sunday  after- 
noon. 

Almost  overcome  with  fear,  I  presented  my- 
self, and  mounted  the  stage  while  McCullough, 
with  a  few  friends,  sat  at  a  distance  back  in 
the  dark  auditorium.  Then,  with  beating 
heart,  I  plunged  eloquently  into  Mrs.  Heman's 
"Bernardo  del  Carpis,"  which  was  one  of  the 
favorite  school  recitations  of  that  day. 

The  warrior  bowed  his  crested  head 

And  tamed  his  steed  of  fire, 
And  sued  the  haughty  King  to  free 

His  long-imprisoned  sire — 

When  I  had  finished  the  great  tragedian  ap- 
peared pleased  and  said  he  would  like  to  hear 
me  read  something  more.  His  pleasant  man- 
ner gave  me  new  courage  and  I  summoned 
"The  Vagabond"  and  "The  Stutterer"  from 
my  ready  repertoire. 

"And  now,"  asked  McCullough,  "can't  you 
read  me  something  a  little  more  dramatic?" 

I  recalled  at  once  the  old  poem,  "The 
Madman."  It  surely  was  dramatic,  but  the 
clothes  I  wore  were  hardly  suitable  for  a  mad- 
man's role.  Asking  McCullough  to  excuse  me 
a  moment,  I  slipped  out  of  my  coat.  On  the 
floor  happened  to  be  some  providential  straws 
which  I  stuck  into  my  thick  black  hair. 

Then  my  tussle  with  "The  Madman"  began. 
If  my  very  life  had  been  at  stake  I  could  not 

[39] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

have  worked  myself  up  to  finer  frenzies.  When 
I  came  to  the  finish  of  my  maniacal  exhibition 
I  discovered  with  dismay  that  I  had  torn  both 
sleeves  of  my  shirt  to  tatters.  McCullough  and 
his  friends  applauded,  and  then  the  great  actor 
pleasantly  bade  me  good-by. 

The  very  next  morning  he  sent  me  a  letter 
offering  me  a  good  position  in  his  company. 
That  is  why  now,  night  after  night,  I  go  down 
on  the  stage  of  the  Belasco  Theatre  after  the 
performance  is  over,  and  listen  to  recitations 
and  readings  by  people  who  think  the  planets 
in  the  heavens  ordained  that  they  should  act. 
I  know  the  percentage  who  have  ability  will  be 
woefully  small,  but  I  cannot  forget  at  such 
times  the  kindly  encouragement  and  helping 
hand  that  John  McCullough  held  out  to  me. 


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Chapter  II 
THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  PLAY 


IN  a  time  like  the  present,  when  the  stage 
appeals  so  intimately  to  the  interest  of  a 
great  majority  of  all  classes  of  the  public,  the 
tendency  is  natural  to  regard  its  art  lightly. 
The  observation  and  experience  of  those  of  us 
who  are  within  the  theatre  lead  to  the  con- 
clusion that  nearly  every  one  is  not  only  a 
playgoer,  but,  at  one  time  or  another,  aspires 
to  write  or  even  tries  to  write  a  play. 

These  aspirants  who  attempt  to  express  their 
impressions  of  life  and  character  in  action  and 
the  spoken  word  are,  of  course,  seldom  qualified 
for  what  is,  I  believe,  the  most  difficult  of  all 
tasks  in  the  domain  of  the  arts.  They  do  not 
realize  that,  no  matter  how  valuable  or  interest- 
ing the  idea  they  seek  to  present  may  be,  it 
can  be  accomplished  only  with  a  thorough 
technical  knowledge,  which  is  very  hard  to  ac- 
quire, of  so  complicated  and  treacherous  an 
instrument  of  artistic  expression  as  the  stage. 
People  who  have  proved  failures  in  the  various 
professions   and   scientific  pursuits   turn  con- 

[41] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

fidently  as  a  last  resort  to  the  much  more 
baffling  vocation  of  play  writing.  Propagan- 
dists attempt  to  appropriate  the  theatre  as  a 
convenient  means  of  ventilating  their  theories, 
forgetting  that  however  attractive  the  theories 
themselves  may  be,  an  interesting  presentation 
of  them  in  terms  of  drama  is  an  entirely  dif- 
ferent matter. 

It  is  a  common  impulse  of  sentimental  women 
to  want  to  write  plays,  and  thousands  of  them 
try.  So,  also,  do  numerous  others  as  alien  to 
the  profession  of  letters  as  the  business  man, 
the  society  woman,  the  housemaid,  or  even 
the  cook.  I  sometimes  wonder  if  the  true 
explanation  for  this  very  general  passion  to 
write  for  the  theatre  is  not  that  the  really  well- 
made  play  seems  so  spontaneous  and  easy  of 
accomplishment.  Since  all  people  talk  and  act 
constantly  in  every-day  life,  why,  they  reason, 
should  it  be  hard  to  make  characters  talk  and 
act  on  the  stage? 

With  such  a  large  part  of  the  population 
trying  to  write  plays  which  they  expect  the 
other  part  will  applaud,  it  is  no  wonder  the 
constant  complaint  of  all  dramatic  producers, 
that  they  cannot  find  suitable  material  for  their 
stages,  is  generally  heard  with  skepticism.  It 
is  never  impossible  for  the  producer  to  obtain 
plays — they  pour  down  upon  him  in  avalanches ; 
but  to  find  in  this  mass  of  unsolicited  contribu- 
tions  even    an   occasional    manuscript    which 

[42] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  PLAY 

meets  the  requirements  of  what  a  play  ought 
to  be  is  a  quite  different  thing.  In  every  pro- 
fession one  must  catch  his  hare  before  he  can 
cook  it;  the  difficulty  in  the  profession  of  the 
dramatic  producer  is  that  hares  worth  cooking 
are  so  few  and  far  between. 

Every  manager  of  established  reputation  fol- 
lows his  own  method  of  obtaining  plays  and 
preparing  them  for  public  performance.  In 
this  respect  the  art  of  the  stage  differs  from  all 
other  arts,  since,  having  to  meet  so  many 
varying  conditions  and  contingencies,  it  cannot 
be  regulated  by  hard  and  fast  rules  of  procediu^e. 
To  a  certain  extent,  also,  a  producer  cannot 
restrict  himself  to  a  single  process  in  all  the 
plays  he  himself  presents.  But  there  should 
be,  nevertheless,  a  common  denominator  which 
establishes  the  individuality  of  his  work  and 
determines  the  artistic  value  of  the  results 
which  he  accomplishes. 

In  my  own  experience  I  have  always  found 
it  very  difficult  to  obtain  the  kind  of  dramas 
I  have  wanted  to  produce.  Compared  with 
this  constant  search  for  plays  which  I  have 
kept  up  with  all  my  energy  for  more  than 
thirty  years,  the  actual  work  of  making  my 
productions,  complicated  and  difficult  as  it  is, 
once  the  play  which  is  suitable  to  my  purpose 
has  been  found,  becomes  relatively  easy,  for 
it  does  not  involve  to  nearly  so  great  a  degree 
the  element  of  chance. 

[43] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

I  have  always  endeavored  to  be  first  in  the 
field  with  plays  that  are  out  of  the  stage's 
conventional  groove,  and  that,  at  the  same 
time,  are  likely  to  appeal  to  the  public's  con- 
stantly changing  taste.  When  I  established 
the  theatres  in  New  York  which  bear  my  name, 
manuscripts  poured  in  on  me  in  such  numbers 
that  I  could  not  possibly  find  time  to  so  much 
as  glance  over  them.  It  occurred  to  me  that, 
if  I  established  a  play  bureau  and  placed  it  in 
charge  of  competent  readers,  it  would  be  a 
coiu'tesy  and  encouragement  to  ambitious  writ- 
ers and  at  the  same  time  might  prove  of  great 
advantage  to  me. 

I  gave  my  idea  a  thorough  test.  At  much 
expense  I  organized  my  bureau,  at  first  with 
one  reader,  but  soon  I  had  to  increase  the 
number  to  three.  Before  long  we  were  re- 
ceiving from  four  thousand  to  five  thousand 
manuscripts  each  season.  All  were  carefully 
read,  and,  if  any  seemed  especially  inviting, 
they  were  turned  over  to  me  to  examine,  while 
the  others  were  sent  back  to  the  authors  with 
comments  pointing  out  their  defects.  But 
during  the  whole  period  that  the  play  bureau 
was  continued,  and  in  spite  of  the  thousands  of 
manuscripts  sent  to  it,  I  never  found  even  one 
which  I  dared  to  produce. 

This  disappointment  of  my  expectations  is 
not  as  remarkable  as  it  may  seem.  It  agrees 
with  the  experiences  of  other  managers.     The 

[44] 


THE   EVOLUTION  OF  A  PLAY 

late  Charles  Frohman  once  told  me  that,  among 
all  the  thousands  of  unsolicited  plays  sent  to 
him  during  more  than  twenty  years,  he  had 
never  found  even  one  which  he  could  accept. 
Later  I  believe  this  record  was  broken,  for 
Mr.  Frohman,  just  before  his  death  when  the 
Lusitania  was  torpedoed,  accepted  **The  Hy- 
phen," one  of  the  first  of  the  spy  plays  that 
followed  the  outbreak  of  the  war  in  Europe, 
which  had  dropped  in  on  him  out  of  the  no- 
where.    It  failed  completely  in  two  weeks. 

My  play  biu"eau  proved  to  be  not  only  of  no 
advantage  to  me,  but  it  became  a  source  of 
endless  complaints  and  frequent  lawsuits.  It 
was  inevitable  that  manuscripts  which  I  had 
never  seen  should  contain  plots  and  incidents 
somewhat  similar  to  other  plays  I  afterward 
produced.  So  after  every  success  in  my  theatre 
I  found  myself  being  sued  by  unknown  writers. 
I  had  no  difficulty  in  contesting  these  claims 
when  they  were  actually  carried  into  the  courts, 
but  they  cost  me  much  time,  money,  and  an- 
noyance. When,  finally,  a  Coney  Island  bar- 
ber charged  me  with  stealing  the  plot  of  "The 
Woman"  from  a  play  by  him,  which  I  had 
never  heard  of,  I  abolished  the  play  bureau 
in  disgust. 

Play  brokers  constantly  submit  to  me  dramas 
which  they  think  suitable  to  my  piuposes,  or 
to  the  needs  of  my  stars.  I  keep  in  close  touch 
with  foreign  authors  and  with  the  stages  of 

[45I 


THE   THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

Europe,  and  I  obtain  the  refusal  of  their 
original  plays  or  of  the  American  rights.  I 
am  generally  engaged  in  writing  a  play  of  my 
own.  I  also  assist  by  advice  a  number  of 
young  writers  who  submit  ideas  or  plots  which 
impress  me  as  capable  of  development  into 
good  plays.  This  process  is  slow,  of  course, 
but  as  a  rule  it  has  brought  me  excellent  results. 

It  is  much  easier  for  a  producer  to  select  a 
play  and  then  cast  it  effectively  than  to  find 
a  suitable  vehicle  for  a  star.  I  can  look  with 
confidence  to  established  native  and  foreign 
playwrights  for  dramas  to  be  acted  by  special 
companies,  but  almost  always  I  have  found  it 
necessary  to  write  the  plays  for  my  stars,  or, 
if  I  have  happened  to  find  one  reasonably 
suited  to  the  ability  of  a  certain  star,  I  have 
been  obliged  either  to  rewrite  it  or  have  it 
rewritten  by  the  author.  In  a  star's  play  there 
must  be  a  perfect  adjustment  of  the  principal 
character  to  the  temperament  and  ability  of 
its  interpreter,  or  else  it  is  better  not  to  produce 
it  at  all. 

Almost  invariably  the  exceptionally  success- 
ful play  is  not  written,  but  rewritten.  However 
attractive  it  may  seem  in  the  form  in  which  it 
comes  to  the  producer,  it  is  capable  of  im- 
provement. This  axiom  of  the  theatre,  which 
is  as  old  as  the  theatre  itself,  has  been  verified 
again  and  again  in  my  own  experience. 

A  few  years  ago  I  had  written  a  play  for  one 
[46] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  PLAY 

of  my  stars.  The  scenery  was  already  painted 
and  the  cast  had  been  partly  engaged  when, 
with  a  new  season  only  six  months  distant,  I 
found  my  plans  suddenly  changed.  In  my 
dilemma  I  thought  over  the  plays  I  had  read 
or  seen,  and  happened  to  remember  a  piece 
called  "Juanita"  which  I  had  come  across  in 
a  stock  theatre  in  Los  Angeles.  It  was  a  story 
of  southern  California,  and,  being  a  Calif ornian 
myself,  it  naturally  had  appealed  strongly  to 
me.  In  describing  how  Frances  Starr  came 
under  my  management  I  have  already  made 
reference  to  this  play.  Its  heroine  was  a  yoimg 
Spanish  girl  and  I  saw  at  once  that  Miss  Stan- 
would  play  the  character  well.  But  aside  from 
the  pretty  romance  the  play  contained,  it  had 
impressed  me  as  very  crude. 

I  sent  for  its  author,  Richard  Walton  Tully, 
and  together  we  spent  five  months  revising  it. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  the  romance  of  the 
story  had  been  expanded,  its  crudeness  had 
disappeared,  and  the  play  had  been  renamed 
"The  Rose  of  the  Rancho."  But  there  was 
still  something  about  it  which  did  not  seem  to 
justify  me  in  risking  a  new  and  comparatively 
unknown  actress  in  its  leading  role.  So  Mr. 
Tully  and  I  went  at  it  again.  We  changed  it 
not  once,  but  a  dozen  times.  At  last  we  whipped 
it  into  the  form  I  desired.  This  laboriously 
revised  and  rebuilt  play,  with  Miss  Starr  in  its 
title  role,  became  one  of  my  great  successes. 

4  I47I 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

I  have  followed  this  same  process  with  every 
play  I  have  produced,  except  "The  Easiest 
Way"  and  "The  Secret."  Having  been  suc- 
cessful with  two  short  Oriental  plays,  "The 
First  Born"  and  "Madame  Butterfly,"  I  was 
anxious  to  present  a  substantial  drama  of 
Japanese  life.  A  great  many  years  ago  I  had 
written  a  play  dealing  with  Italian  character 
and  containing  certain  situations  which,  it 
seemed  to  me,  might  be  adapted  to  a  Japanese 
locale.  John  Luther  Long  was  the  author  of 
the  story  from  which  "Madame  Butterfly" 
had  been  taken,  so  I  invited  him  to  collaborate 
with  me  on  the  new  play  I  had  in  mind,  as  he 
possessed  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  traits 
of  character  of  the  Japanese.  The  play  we 
wrote  together  was  "The  Darling  of  the  Gods." 
We  did  the  work  with  a  great  deal  of  facility 
and  were  much  pleased  with  it  when  the  first 
draft  was  completed;  nevertheless,  before  it 
finally  reached  the  stage  we  had  taken  it  apart 
and  entirely  rewritten  it,  not  once,  but  several 
times. 

The  exceptional  popularity  of  one  of  my 
more  recent  comedy  productions,  "The  Boom- 
erang," has  caused  a  good  deal  of  favorable 
comment.  Theatregoers  who  have  been  im- 
pressed by  the  spontaneity  and  ease  with 
which  it  seemed  to  have  been  written  may  be 
surprised  to  know  that,  having  submitted  it  to 
me  in  a  form  wliich  they  thought  complete, 

[48] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  PLAY 

Winchell  Smith  and  Victor  Mapes,  its  authors, 
worked  on  it  for  nearly  two  more  years,  and  at 
my  suggestion  rewrote  it  completely  three 
times.  Their  task  grew  very  irksome  and 
sometimes  they  became  greatly  discouraged, 
but  surely  the  results  justified  the  energy  and 
time  which  the  revisions  required. 

I  have  always  made  it  a  practice  to  be  not 
less  critical  of  my  own  plays.  When  "The 
Girl  of  the  Golden  West"  left  my  desk,  the 
manuscript  was  decked  out  with  blue  ribbons 
and  I  regarded  it  with  the  natural  pride  of  an 
author  who  had  lavished  his  best  efforts  upon 
it.  I  then  put  it  aside  for  a  time.  When  I 
took  it  up  again  several  weeks  later  I  deter- 
mined to  attack  it  impersonally.  I  said  to 
myself : 

"I  shall  pretend  that  this  play  was  written 
by  'Smith,'  and  that  some  producer  has  paid 
me  a  thousand  dollars  to  adapt  it  for  him.  I 
shall  try  to  forget  that  I  have  ever  had  anything 
to  do  with  its  original  script  and  shall  revise 
it  from  the  point  of  view  of  an  experienced 
stage-manager.  Moreover,  I  shall  do  the  work 
as  deliberately  as  if  I  had  no  interest  in  its 
immediate  production." 

So  I  began  rewriting,  changing,  and  adapt- 
ing. Speeches  that  merely  read  well,  without 
advancing  the  action  or  elaborating  the  char- 
acters, I  cut  out  altogether.  Scenes  that  were 
effective,  but  unnecessary  to  the  story,  I  ruth- 

l49l 


THE   THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

lessly  slaughtered.  By  the  time  I  had  fin- 
ished, I,  as  Belasco,  had  several  times  broken 
'Smith's'  heart.  But  I  think  I  also  greatly 
improved  my  own  play. 

I  follow  this  system  with  every  author  who 
works  for  or  with  me.  Every  detail  of  a  play 
which  I  intend  to  produce  I  analyze  and  debate, 
pro  and  con,  with  him.  But  I  try  never  to 
force  my  own  convictions  upon  a  writer.  I 
ask  him  to  listen  to  whatever  criticisms  I  may 
make,  and  then,  if  I  succeed  in  impressing  him 
that  I  am  right,  we  have  a  basis  to  work  on. 
The  first  law  of  the  stage,  whether  in  writing 
a  play  or  playing  a  part,  is  to  convince  the 
audience  of  the  truth  and  logic  of  the  work. 
Let  this  supreme  quality  be  absent  and  the 
play,  however  great  may  be  the  care  lavished 
on  its  literary  execution  or  production,  will  be 
a  failure. 

How  complete  should  be  the  equipment  of 
the  dramatist,  and  also  the  producer  who 
brings  his  drama  into  life,  is  best  expressed  by 
saying  that  playwriting  is  the  most  complex 
of  all  the  arts.  The  dramatist  must  furnish  a 
complete  foundation  for  every  detail  of  the 
work  which  falls  upon  the  producer  or  stage 
director.  The  play  once  in  hand,  the  producer 
must  possess  an  artist's  sense  of  colors.  He 
must  be  a  close  student  of  nature.  He  must 
be  familiar  with  geography  and  the  manners 
and  customs  of  peoples.     He  should  be  a  dan- 

[50] 


David  Bclasco  at  Work  on  the  Preliminaries  of  a  Play  in  the 

Workroom  of  His  Studio 

Photograph  taken  just  before  the  production  of  "The  Easiest  Way" 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A   PLAY 

cer — at  least  rhythm  must  be  a  part  of  his 
soul,  for  action  is  the  poetry  of  motion.  He 
should  be  careful  to  inform  himself  on  any 
special  subject  that  may  enter  the  work  he  is 
preparing  for  the  stage.  When  the  play  fails 
in  its  intent,  he,  not  the  author  or  the  actors, 
is  usually  to  blame.  The  impression  which 
the  completed  work  is  destined  to  make  rests 
with  him. 

In  preparing  the  production  of  "The  Re- 
turn of  Peter  Grimm,"  I  studied  with  diligence 
such  standard  books  on  psychic  phenomena  as 
Prof.  James  H.  Hyslop's  Psychical  Research 
and  The  Resurrection  and  Fremont  Rider's 
Are  the  Dead  Alive?  and  I  had  several  long  talks 
with  Professor  James.  I  did  not  undertake 
"The  Case  of  Becky,"  which  dealt  with  the 
phenomenon  of  dual  personality,  until  I  was 
thoroughly  familiar  with  Prof.  Morton  Price's 
work,  The  Dissociation  of  a  Personality,  and  I 
had  for  a  time,  as  my  guest.  Professor  Allen,  of 
Philadelphia,  who  was  also  present  three  days 
at  the  final  rehearsals.  When  art  intrudes 
upon  the  domain  of  science  it  should  have 
authority  for  everything  it  appropriates. 

I  recall  that  when  I  produced  "Men  and 
Women"  twenty  years  ago,  I  obtained  the 
atmosphere  of  the  Directors'  Meeting  scene 
which  it  contained  by  going  to  a  real  directors' 
meeting  in  a  Wall  Street  bank,  where  I  sat  in 
a  corner  and  watched  the  proceedings.     To 

[51] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

get  the  right  feeling  for  "The  Man  Inside"  I 
engaged  "Chuck"  Connors,  a  Bowery  denizen 
now  dead,  to  take  me  on  a  slumming  tour 
among  Chinese  opiiun-joints,  and  I  even  went 
down  near  the  Tombs  Prison  at  2  a.m.  to 
listen  to  sounds  in  the  vicinity,  such  as  the 
clocks  striking  the  hours. 

Both  as  pla)rwright  and  producer  I  am  a 
realist,  but  I  do  not  believe  in  harrowing 
audiences  unnecessarily.  It  was  very  hard 
to  avoid  one  distressing  scene  in  my  own 
play,  "The  Return  of  Peter  Grimm,"  but  I 
overcame  the  defect  after  experimenting  with 
it  several  weeks.  The  play  dealt  with  the 
persistent  survival  of  personality,  or,  as  some 
people  would  have  it,  with  a  ghost.  For  the 
denouement  of  the  story  it  was  necessary  that 
the  returned  spirit  of  old  Peter  should  become 
visible  to  one  of  the  characters.  I  first  in- 
vented a  seance  scene  with  a  woman  medium, 
but  in  rehearsals  it  impressed  me  as  ridiculous. 
Then,  after  various  experiments,  none  of  which 
quite  satisfied  me,  I  hit  upon  the  idea  of  writ- 
ing into  the  play  the  character  of  a  little  child 
and  having  him,  in  his  dying  delirium,  see  old 
Peter  in  his  spirit  presence.  I  was  aware  that 
the  scene  of  the  child's  death  would  be  painful 
to  the  audience  if  I  did  not  soften  it,  so  I 
introduced  into  the  opening  act  the  effect  of  a 
circus  passing  the  house  with  bands  playing 
and  clowns  singing,  to  the  delight  of  the  child 

[52] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A   PLAY 

as  he  stood  at  the  window.  Then,  when  the 
death  scene  was  reached  at  the  end  of  the  play, 
I  reproduced  all  these  circus  sounds,  but  softly 
and  from  far  away,  as  if  they  were  passing 
through  the  little  child's  disordered  mind, 
and  he  died  smiling  and  happy.  So  the  effect 
upon  the  audience,  while  deeply  pathetic,  was 
neither  harsh  nor  cruel. 


II 

Let  us  now  assume  that  a  play  has  been 
brought  into  acceptable  form  in  its  manuscript 
and  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  produce  it. 
My  first  step  in  the  practical  work  of  pro- 
duction is  to  study  out  the  scenes,  which  must 
be  constructed  as  carefully  as  the  play  itself, 
for  a  skilfully  devised  scene  is  always  of  vital 
assistance  to  an  episode.  In  this  preliminary 
work  I  seldom  follow  the  stage  directions  on 
the  printed  page,  either  of  my  own  plays  or 
those  of  other  dramatists.  I  prefer  to  plan 
the  scenes  myself  with  reference  to  stage 
values. 

I  consider  where  a  window  or  door,  a  bal- 
cony or  a  fireplace,  will  be  most  effective. 
The  feeling  of  the  scene  is  always  a  great  factor 
in  determining  its  arrangement,  for  symbolism 
to  a  certain  extent  enters  the  production  of 
every  play.  For  instance,  sunlit  scenes  imply 
happiness,  moonlit  scenes  give  a  suggestion  of 

[53] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

romance,  w^hile  tragedy  or  sorrow  should  be 
played  in  gloom.  It  is  never  advisable  to 
stage  comedy  scenes,  which  depend  for  their 
interest  upon  the  wittiness  of  the  dialogue, 
in  exterior  settings,  for  the  surroundings  sug- 
gest too  great  an  expanse;  if  acted  in  an 
interior  setting  the  lines  become  immeasurably 
more  effective. 

Such  details  as  these  must  be  carefully 
thought  out,  and  as  I  become  more  familiar 
with  the  lines  and  episodes  the  scenes  gradually 
form  themselves.  Then  I  make  a  rough  sketch, 
taking  into  accoimt  the  necessary  arrangement 
of  furniture  or  other  properties  and  consider- 
ing how  the  characters  can  be  maneuvered  to 
best  advantage. 

When  I  have  settled  these  matters  approxi- 
mately, I  send  for  my  scenic  artist.  With  him 
seated  in  front,  I  take  the  empty  stage  and, 
as  far  as  possible,  try  to  act  the  whole  play, 
making  every  entrance  and  exit  and  indicat- 
ing my  ideas  of  the  groupings  of  the  characters 
and  their  surroundings.  This  process,  which 
would  probably  seem  farcical  to  a  casual 
onlooker,  will  consume  perhaps  four  or  five 
evenings,  for  not  one  detail  can  be  left  to 
chance  or  put  aside  until  I  am  satisfied  that  it 
cannot  be  improved. 

During  this  process  one  must  treat  the 
play  as  a  htunan  being;  it  must  laugh  at  cer- 
tain points,  at  others  it  must  be  sad;    lovers 

[54] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  PLAY 

must  come  together  in  certain  lights;  and  all 
its  changing  moods  must  be  blended  harmoni- 
ously. For  the  completed  play  is  impressive 
and  fulfils  its  purpose  only  to  the  extent  that  it 
carries  an  audience  back  to  its  own  experiences. 
If  my  productions  have  had  an  appealing  qual- 
ity, it  is  because  I  have  kept  this  important 
fact  constantly  in  mind  and  have  tried,  while 
concealing  the  mechanism  of  my  scenes,  to 
tug  at  the  hearts  of  my  audiences. 

Having  explained  in  detail  my  ideas  and 
tiu*ned  over  a  manuscript  to  him,  the  scenic 
artist  proceeds  to  make  a  drawing  of  the  scenes, 
following  my  crude  sketches,  and  thus  we 
reach  a  definite  starting-point.  In  due  course 
of  time — it  may  be  a  week  or  a  month — the 
scenic  artist  will  have  constructed  the  actual 
scene  models  which  are  set  up  in  the  perfectly 
equipped  miniature  theatre  of  my  studio. 
But  changes  are  always  suggesting  themselves, 
and  often  these  models,  which  are  about  four 
feet  long,  have  to  be  taken  apart  and  recon- 
structed several  times. 

It  is  time  now  to  begin  to  consider  what  to 
me  is  the  all-important  factor  in  a  dramatic 
production — the  lighting  of  the  scenes.  With 
my  electrician  I  again  go  over  the  play  in 
detail,  very  much  according  to  the  method  I 
have  previously  followed  with  my  scenic  artist. 
When  he  has  thoroughly  grasped  my  ideas  and 
become   quite   familiar   with   the  play   itself, 

[55] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

we  begin  our  experiments,  using  the  miniature 
theatre  and  evolving  our  colors  by  transmitting 
white  light  through  gelatin  or  silk  of  various 
hues.  Night  after  night  we  experiment  to- 
gether to  obtain  color  or  atmospheric  effects, 
aiming  always  to  make  them  aid  the  inter- 
pretation of  the  scenes. 

Lights  are  to  drama  what  music  is  to  the 
lyrics  of  a  song.  No  other  factor  that  enters 
into  the  production  of  a  play  is  so  effective  in 
conveying  its  moods  and  feeling.  They  are  as 
essential  to  every  work  of  dramatic  art  as 
blood  is  to  life.  The  greatest  part  of  my  suc- 
cess in  the  theatre  I  attribute  to  my  feeling  for 
colors,  translated  into  effects  of  light.  Some- 
times these  effects  have  been  imitated  by  other 
producers  with  considerable  success,  but  I 
do  not  fear  such  encroachments.  It  may  be 
possible  for  others  to  copy  my  colors,  but  no 
one  can  get  my  feeling  for  them. 

The  lighting  effects  on  my  stages  have  been 
secured  only  after  years  of  experiment  and  at 
an  expense  which  many  other  producers  would 
consider  ridiculous.  Sometimes  I  have  spent 
five  thousand  dollars  attempting  to  reproduce 
the  delicate  hues  of  a  sunset  and  then  have 
thrown  the  scene  away  altogether.  I  recall 
that  when  I  produced  "The  Girl  of  the  Golden 
West,"  I  experimented  three  months  to  seciu"e 
exactly  the  soft,  changing  colors  of  a  Cali- 
fomian  sunset  over  the  Sierra  Nevadas,  and 

1 56] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A   PLAY 

then  turned  to  another  method.  It  was  a 
good  sunset,  but  it  was  not  CaHfornian.  After- 
ward I  sold  it  to  the  producers  of  "Salomy 
Jane,"  and  it  proved  very  effective  and  per- 
fectly adjusted  to  the  needs  of  that  play. 

These  experiments  have  always  been  the 
most  interesting  part  of  my  work  as  a  pro- 
ducer, although  they  have  also  been  the  most 
perplexing  and  sometimes  the  most  baffling. 
It  is  no  easy  matter,  for  instance,  to  indicate 
the  difference  between  the  moon  and  stars  of  a 
Japanese  night  and  the  fanciful  moon  and 
stars  of  fairyland.  But  there  is,  nevertheless, 
a  difference  which  an  audience  must  be  made 
to  feel,  without  detecting  the  mechanism,  just 
as  one  is  conscious  of  heat,  yet  does  not  see  it, 
on  entering  a  warm  room. 

The  problem  of  lighting  was  especially  diffi- 
cult in  my  production  of  ''The  Return  of  Peter 
Grimm,"  since  in  that  play  it  was  necessary 
to  indicate  the  contrast  between  life  and  death. 
Doing  away  with  footlights  helped  me  con- 
siderably, but  it  took  five  months  of  experi- 
ments to  accomplish  the  results  I  sought.  1 
invented  special  reflectors  to  produce  the 
ashen  hue  of  death,  but  something  always 
seemed  lacking.  I  kept  David  Warfield  in 
New  York  all  summer,  standing  alone  on  the 
stage  for  hours  at  a  stretch,  while  I  threw 
various  lights  upon  him.  Then  it  occurred 
to  me  that  the  trouble  lay  in  the  kind  of  clothes 

[57] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

he  wore.  I  sent  for  fifty  bolts  of  cloth  and 
wrapped  him  in  the  different  fabrics  and  colors, 
until  I  found  one  which  made  him  look  myste- 
rious and  far  away.  Even  then  his  appearance 
was  not  quite  right.  When  other  characters 
came  on  the  stage  things  went  wrong.  Finally 
I  tried  the  expedient  of  casting  a  cold  gray 
light  upon  his  features  from  above,  while,  at  the 
same  time,  I  illuminated  the  faces  of  the  other 
characters  in  the  play  with  a  faint  rosy  glow. 
It  was  necessary  to  have  many  of  these  lights  of 
differing  quality  which,  one  after  the  other, 
''picked  up"  the  people  as  they  moved  from 
place  to  place  on  the  stage.  The  effect  was 
exactly  what  I  desired,  and  it  proved  to  be 
one  of  the  most  important  factors  in  the  suc- 
cess of  the  play. 

In  my  production  of  "The  Darling  of  the 
Gods"  in  1902  it  was  comparatively  easy  to 
indicate  by  lights  the  tragic  feeling  of  the 
scene  in  which  the  band  of  Samurai  commit 
suicide  by  hari-kari.  I  set  the  stage  in  the 
picture  of  a  gaunt  bamboo  forest,  behind  which 
was  a  great  blood-red  setting  sun  to  symbolize 
ebbing  life.  In  the  shadows  Kara's  followers 
could  be  faintly  seen  and  the  audience  could 
hear  the  clatter  of  their  lacquered  armor  as 
they  went  to  their  self-inflicted  deaths. 

But  when  it  came  to  the  scene  of  the  River 
of  Souls,  in  which  the  dead  were  to  swim  to 
the  lower  depths,  or  purgatory,  in  preparation 

[58] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A   PLAY 

to  entering  the  celestial  hereafter,  a  most 
troublesome  problem  arose.  I  had  built  the 
translucent  scene  of  the  river  at  a  cost  of 
$6,500  and  had  devised  a  kind  of  harness  in 
which  fifteen  girls  were  suspended  to  represent 
the  passage  of  the  souls.  When  I  tested  the 
scene  with  manikins  in  my  miniatvire  theatre,  it 
invariably  worked  perfectly;  but  when  I  tried 
it  on  the  regular  stage  something  was  sure  to 
go  wrong.  Some  of  the  girls  swam  well,  while 
others  swam  badly,  and  almost  always  one  or 
two  got  tangled  in  their  harness.  Such  accidents 
in  a  performance  before  an  audience  would  have 
caused  laughter,  which  would  have  been  fatal 
to  a  production  that  had  cost  $80,000. 

For  two  days  and  two  nights,  barring  short 
recesses,  we  worked  over  that  stubborn  scene, 
and  at  last  I  decided  to  give  it  up.  Blanche 
Bates,  who  was  to  play  the  character  of  the 
heroine,  Yo-San,  was  almost  in  despair.  George 
Arliss  lay  asleep  on  a  lounge  at  the  side  of  the 
stage,  and  every  one  else  was  vexed,  dis- 
couraged, and  completely  fagged  out.  The 
opening  performance  had  already  been  twice 
postponed,  but  reluctantly  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  put  it  off  again. 

I  ordered  the  scene  "struck,"  and  my  car- 
penters hoisted  all  the  opaque  setting  which 
had  been  made  at  great  cost,  leaving  a  single 
gauze  cvirtain  suspended  in  irregular  folds 
at  the  front  of  the  stage.    Just  at  this  moment 

[59I 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

one  of  the  workmen  happened  to  pass  between 
the  curtain  and  a  light  at  the  back.  Seen 
through  the  folds  of  the  curtain  his  movements 
were  almost  ghostly.  I  saw  at  once  that  the 
effect  for  which  I  had  been  striving  had  come 
to  me  ready-made.  Each  of  the  fifteen  girls 
was  told  to  count  ten  and  then  cross  the  stage, 
using  her  arms  to  suggest  a  kind  of  swimming 
motion.  The  effect  was  remarkable,  for  the 
number  of  figures  seemed  increased  a  thousand- 
fold. Having  already  thrown  away  $6,500, 
I  built  the  scene  in  a  day  for  $90  and  it  is 
being  imitated  yet. 

In  "Du  Barry"  one  of  the  problems  which 
arose  was  how  to  change  from  a  brilliantly 
lighted  scene  to  a  dark  scene  without  abruptly 
turning  out  the  lights,  and  also  how  to  invent 
an  excuse  for  the  ensuing  darkness.  I  thought 
of  midnight  bathing  and  other  pastimes  of 
the  coirrt  of  Louis  XV,  but  I  could  not  put 
them  on  the  stage.  While  looking  over  some 
books  on  the  customs  of  the  period,  I  ran 
across  descriptions  of  the  lighted  balls  which 
were  tossed  about  by  the  courtiers  and  ladies 
in  court  games.  Thus  I  not  only  found  the 
excuse  I  needed  for  turning  out  my  stage  lights, 
but  the  brilliantly  illuminated  balls  did  away 
with  the  abruptness  of  the  change,  while  the 
novelty  of  it  appealed  strongly  to  the  audience 
at  a  point  in  the  play  where  a  surprise  was 
needed  to  stimulate  its  interest. 

[60] 


a 
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pi 

td 


p 


!r-.c    :=! 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  PLAY 

The  scene  models  having  been  approved 
and  the  very  important  matter  of  the  Hghting 
being  well  under  way,  it  is  time  now  to  begin 
the  building  of  the  actual  scenes.  I  turn  my 
carpenters  over  to  my  scenic  artist,  who  fur- 
nishes to  them  the  plans.  They  then  construct 
the  scenery  in  my  own  shops,  for  I  never  have 
such  work  done  by  contract.  I  will  allow 
nothing  to  be  built  out  of  canvas  stretched 
on  frames.  Everything  must  be  real.  I  have 
seen  plays  in  which  thrones  creaked  on  which 
monarchs  sat,  and  palace  walls  flapped  when 
persons  touched  them.  Nothing  so  destruc- 
tive to  illusion  or  so  ludicrous  can  happen 
on  my  stage. 

Meanwhile,  if  the  play  has  a  musical  accom- 
paniment, I  read  it  to  the  composer  I  have 
engaged,  indicating  its  moods  and  feeling. 
He  must  interpret  every  scene  and  speech  as 
if  he  were  writing  the  score  for  a  song.  I 
always  aim  to  avoid  fitting  old  or  familiar 
music  to  a  new  play. 

I  generally  prefer  to  leave  the  costuming 
imtil  after  the  first  week  of  rehearsals,  when 
I  am  reasonably  sure  of  my  actors,  unless  it 
happens  to  be  a  costiune  play  which  I  am 
producing.  If  it  demands  other  than  modern 
clothes,  I  write  a  full  description  for  the  char- 
acters, deciding  whether  their  hair  shall  be 
smooth  or  shaggy  and  whether  they  shall  or 
shall  not  wear  beards,  and  then  call  a  costume- 

f6il 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

designer  into  consultation.  All  this  is  very 
necessary  in  a  costume  play,  in  order  to  pre- 
serve the  color  harmonies  of  my  scenes.  If, 
on  the  other  hand,  it  be  a  modem  play  that  I 
am  producing,  I  send  my  actors,  when  the  prop- 
er time  comes,  to  the  various  shops  to  be 
fitted  for  their  clothing. 

I  try  not  to  dictate  too  much  in  the  matter 
of  dresses  for  my  actresses,  except  to  preserve 
the  color  harmonies,  but  I  insist  that  they  must 
take  heed  of  the  temperament  of  the  char- 
acters they  are  to  represent  and  the  stations 
in  life  to  which  the  characters  belong.  As 
for  the  male  characters,  if  one  would  be  likely 
to  pvirchase  his  clothes  of  a  fashionable  tailor, 
I  send  the  actor  to  just  such  a  shop ;  if  another 
would  be  likely  to  wear  cheap,  ready-made 
stuff,  he  must  seek  it  in  that  kind  of  a  place. 
Clothes,  to  be  sure,  do  not  make  the  man, 
but  generally  they  are  a  safe  index  to  his 
character  and  temperament. 

While  all  these  various  details  of  the  pro- 
duction are  moving  along,  except  the  costum- 
ing, to  which  I  have  referred  incidentally,  I 
am  himting  everywhere  for  my  cast.  In  fact, 
I  have  been  on  the  lookout  for  actors  and 
actresses  suitable  to  the  various  characters 
from  the  moment  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
accept  the  play.  Applicants  for  parts  come 
to  my  office  in  swarms,  but  generally  they  are 
members  of  the  profession  who  are  too  famil- 

f62l 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A   PLAY 

iarly  known  to  the  public,  since  I  prefer,  as 
far  as  possible,  to  develop  my  own  actors.  I 
ransack  the  varieties  and  the  cheap  stock 
companies,  and  I  both  go  to  see  the  people 
and  have  them  come  to  see  me.  If  I  happen 
to  be  producing  a  play  for  a  star,  the  organiza- 
tion of  the  company  is  somewhat  simplified, 
but  in  any  event  I  always  choose  my  play- 
ers with  the  greatest  care.  In  making  my 
selections  I  would  much  prefer  to  have  an 
actor  resemble  the  character  he  is  to  represent 
than  have  him  depend  upon  disguise  and  the 
assumption  of  manners,  for  my  motto  as  a 
producer  has  been  to  keep  as  close  to  nature 
as  possible. 

By  the  time  I  am  ready  to  make  my  con- 
tracts, my  conception  of  every  character  is 
complete.  Should  the  character  be  English 
or  French  or  Italian,  I  try  to  engage  actors  of 
those  nationalities  to  impersonate  them.  When 
I  was  preparing  the  production  of  "The 
Music  Master,"  I  searched  for  some  of  my 
people  in  the  theatres  of  the  lower  East  Side 
of  New  York;  in  "The  Darling  of  the  Gods" 
I  employed  Japanese  in  some  instances;  in 
"  Marie-Odile "  my  Uhlans  were  real  Germans. 

It  is  necessary,  also,  to  be  quite  as  careful 
in  selecting  supers  as  in  engaging  people  for 
speaking  roles.  Sometimes  I  have  gathered 
together  one  hundred  and  fifty  super  candi- 
dates at  one  sitting,  and  from  this  number 
5  [63] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH    ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

have  chosen  barely  half  a  dozen.  I  study  their 
features  closely,  with  a  view  to  their  fitness,  and 
I  watch  their  manner  and  movements. 

In  the  case  of  players  of  speaking  roles  the 
quality  of  the  voice  is  a  strong  persuading 
factor  in  my  calculations.  If  I  happen  to 
have  selected  an  actor  with  a  deep  voice  for  a 
certain  part,  I  try  to  put  him  opposite  an 
actress  who  has  a  highly  pitched  voice,  for 
when  the  talk  floats  across  the  footlights  it 
must  blend  as  in  a  song.  In  casting  a  play 
for  a  star,  I  am  also  careful  to  avoid  tempera- 
mental people,  for  it  must  be  the  star  who  has 
the  monopoly  of  temperamental  qualities. 
Such  small  details  as  these  are  not  ordinarily 
noticed  by  audiences;  nevertheless,  they  are 
unconsciously  felt,  and  consequently  they  be- 
come of  utmost  importance  in  every  artistic 
production  of  a  drama. 


Ill 

I  have  been  dealing,  up  to  this  point,  with 
what,  to  a  theatre  audience,  are  the  impersonal 
factors  in  the  evolution  of  a  play  on  my  stage. 
Until  my  company  is  fully  organized  its  mem- 
bers, of  course,  remain  scattered.  In  due 
course  of  time  —  I  usually  allot  about  six 
weeks  to  rehearsals  of  a  play  which  does  not 
offer  unusual  difficulties — notices  are  sent  out 
for  the  people  to  assemble.     When  they  arrive 

[64] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  PLAY 

at  the  theatre  I  always  make  it  a  practice  to 
be  on  hand  to  receive  them.  I  want  them 
to  feel  from  the  outset  an  intimate  relation- 
ship to  me  and  to  one  another.  Some  have 
already  played  together  in  the  same  companies ; 
some  know  one  another  only  by  reputations, 
and  some  are  strangers.  I  introduce  them 
to  one  another  and  treat  them  as  guests  in  my 
drawing-room,  rather  than  as  employees  on 
my  stage.  After  a  few  moments  spent  in 
general  conversation  I  then  invite  them  to 
accompany  me  to  the  reading-room,  where 
they  find  a  long,  well-lighted  table  surroimded 
by  comfortable  chairs. 

When  we  are  all  seated — I  at  the  head  of 
the  table  with  the  scene  models  beside  me — I 
invariably  give  a  few  preliminary  instructions. 
First  of  all  I  caution  the  members  of  the  com- 
pany not  to  discuss  the  play  outside  my 
theatre.  I  impress  upon  them  that  the  ulti- 
mate result  of  oiu"  efforts  will  depend  upon 
the  spirit  of  co-operation  which  each  brings 
to  it  and  that  the  success  of  the  whole  is  more 
important  to  me  than  any  of  its  parts.  I 
lu-ge  that  they  must  not  judge  the  value  of 
their  characters  by  the  number  of  lines  allotted 
to  them  to  speak,  but  rather  by  the  artistry 
which  the  characters  permit.  Above  all,  I 
ask  them  not  to  be  selfish,  but  to  assist  one 
another  because,  after  all,  they  are  only  the 
component  parts  of  a  single  picture. 

[65] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE  DOOR 

My  sermon  preached  and  reiterated,  I  then 
read  the  play  from  beginning  to  end,  without 
interruptions  or  comments.  This  ceremony 
finished,  the  individual  parts  are  distributed 
by  the  prompter. 

Luncheon  is  then  served  in  the  reading- 
room,  and  presently  we  return  to  the  play, 
this  time  with  the  actors  reading  their  own 
parts.  We  pause  frequently  for  discussions, 
and  I  am  now  on  the  alert  to  detect  the  in- 
evitable errors  by  the  typist.  When  words  or 
phrases  do  not  seem  to  be  understood,  we  try 
to  decide  them  at  once.  Whenever  the  play 
involves  the  frequent  use  of  French  or  Ger- 
man words,  I  aim  to  have  teachers  of  those 
languages  present  at  the  reading,  and  their 
decisions  become  our  court  of  last  appeal. 
Meanwhile  I  counsel  the  people  to  give  close 
heed  to  the  characteristic  inflections  of  the 
roles  they  are  to  perform.  For  instance,  I 
would  not  permit  an  Englishman  to  say  "can't 
or  sha'n't,"  nor  would  I  allow  an  American 
character  to  say  "caunt"  or  "shaunt."  In 
life  people  speak  variously.  Therefore  it  is 
advisable,  in  the  rehearsal  of  a  play,  not  to 
restrict  actors  to  conventional  pronunciations. 
Within  the  limits  of  good  usage,  I  prefer  them 
to  take  their  choice. 

Talk  about  stage-fright!  The  suffering  of 
actors  at  a  first  public  performance  is  nothing 
compared  to  what  they  undergo  when,  with 

[  66  ] 


THE   EVOLUTION  OF  A   PLAY 

no  one  but  myself  present,  they  first  read  their 
parts  from  the  manuscript.  Each  character 
is  closely  analyzed  as  we  proceed.  Invariably 
our  discussions  bring  out  more  of  the  psychol- 
ogy of  the  roles  than  the  author  ever  dreamed 
his  play  contained.  When  the  reading  is 
finished  we  indulge  in  a  little  general  con- 
versation— the  pleasant  social  relationship  of 
the  members  of  a  theatrical  company  is  always 
important — ^and  then  the  rehearsal  is  adjourned 
until  the  following  morning. 

Daily,  at  the  same  hour,  ten-thirty  o'clock, 
we  assemble  in  the  reading-room.  The  actors 
have  not  yet  memorized  their  parts,  but  are 
reading  from  the  manuscript.  Each  one  is 
acquiring  a  better  conception  of  his  own  role 
and  noticing  the  gradual  growth  of  the  other 
characters.  Meanwhile  I  study  the  individual 
actors,  noting  where  values  and  deficiencies 
lie.  I  observe  when  they  cannot  sustain  scenes 
or  speeches — when  they  are  not  good  listeners — 
and  make  up  my  mind  what  I  am  going  to  do 
when  I  get  them  on  my  stage. 

During  this  week  of  preliminary  readings  I 
rarely  fail  to  detect  imperfections  which  have 
previously  escaped  my  notice,  in  the  play  itself. 
I  follow  the  construction  in  an  effort  to  find 
weak  spots.  There  may  be  no  "carrying 
over"  interest  between  episodes  or  scenes, 
and  these  must  be  corrected.  I  may  say  in 
this  connection  that  I  have  rarely  been  op- 

[67] 


THE  THEATRE   THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

posed  by  my  authors  when  changes  in  their 
manuscripts  have  been  found  necessary;  they 
have  generally  been  willing  to  yield  to  my 
judgment.  So,  whether  it  may  be  my  own 
or  another's  play,  I  rewrite,  transpose,  change, 
and  cut,  until,  at  the  end  of  a  week,  the  manu- 
scripts are  so  interlined  that  it  is  almost  im- 
possible to  read  them.  In  more  than  the 
average  case  the  manuscripts  must  be  retyped 
— plays,  I  repeat,  are  built,  not  wTitten — 
and  at  this  point  we  are  ready  for  our  first 
real  rehearsal. 

When  I  am  satisfied  that  the  members  of 
the  company  have  in  their  minds  a  clear  con- 
ception of  the  play  and  its  characters — up 
to  this  point  they  have  been  only  reading  and 
listening,  not  acting — I  make  it  a  rule  to  turn 
them  over  to  my  stage  director,  who  super- 
vises them  duiring  the  first  rehearsal  on  the 
stage.  He,  in  the  mean  time,  has  been  study- 
ing the  play  and  listening  to  the  readings, 
and  knows,  roughly  at  least,  what  I  am  aim- 
ing to  accomplish.  I  have  always  foimd  it 
better  to  keep  out  of  sight  during  the  first 
experiments  in  the  real  acting,  for  when  I  am 
present  the  actors  stand  still  and  depend  upon 
me  for  directions. 

I  always  caution  the  stage  director  to  let 
them  give  him  everything,  that  he  must  give 
them  nothing.  In  this  way  they  rely  upon 
their  own  initiative  and,  so  to  speak,  squeeze 

[68] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A   PLAY 

themselves  dry.  Their  invention  seems  to 
grow  when  they  know  they  can  do  as  they 
please.  With  this  confidence  gained,  I  take 
control  of  the  play  again  and  we  go  at  it  in 
earnest. 

Now  the  period  of  hardest  work  has  been 
reached.  I  have  kept  my  people  on  the  stage 
twenty  hours  at  a  stretch,  making  some  of  them 
read  a  single  line  perhaps  fifty  times,  experi- 
menting with  little  subtleties  of  intonation  or 
gesture,  and  going  over  bits  of  business  again 
and  again.  Infinite  patience  is  needed  to 
make  others  understand  the  soul  of  a  char- 
acter as  the  author  or  producer  conceives  it, 
and  such  patience,  coupled  with  the  knack  of 
communicating  his  own  ideas,  must  be  pos- 
sessed by  every  successful  producer. 

I  have  never  resorted  to  bullying  in  order 
to  make  my  actors  do  as  I  wish ;  I  have  always 
foimd  that  the  best  results  can  be  gained  by 
appealing  subtly  to  their  imagination.  I  can 
convey  more  to  them  by  a  look  or  a  gesture 
than  by  a  long  harangue  or  a  scolding. 

Peculiarities  in  the  actors  are  also  disclosed 
by  these  experiments.  Some  may  be  able  to 
speak  their  lines  more  effectively  while  seated 
than  while  standing;  some  play  better  on  the 
right  side  of  the  stage  than  on  the  left,  or 
vice  versa;  one  arrives  at  his  best  results 
deliberately,  another  by  nervous  energy;  I 
have  even  known  actors  whose  work  varied 

[69] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

according  to  whether  they  directly  faced  the 
audience  or  presented  their  profiles  to  it. 
Experience  has  taught  me  not  to  direct  my 
players  arbitrarily,  but  to  be  guided  by  what 
they  can  best  do.  Their  peculiarities  are  the 
results  of  temperament  and  personality,  which 
the  intelligent  stage  director  should  always  at- 
tempt to  preserve.  I  try  to  correct  mannerisms 
when  they  are  bad,  for  bad  mannerisms  are  as 
destructive  to  good  acting  as  weeds  to  a  garden; 
but  when  mannerisms  are  indexes  of  personality 
they  have  a  distinct  value. 

One  of  the  most  frequent  errors  of  dramatic 
criticism  is  to  condemn  the  peculiarities  of 
manner,  gesture,  and  elocution  which  are 
really  the  distinguishing  signs  of  histrionic 
ability.  It  is  upon  these  personal  oddities 
that  the  imitators  and  caricaturists  of  im- 
portant players  invariably  seize.  To  carica- 
ture the  late  Henry  Irving  it  was  necessary 
only  to  exaggerate  the  hollow  intonation  of 
his  delivery.  In  Joseph  Jefferson's  case  it 
was  his  lisp  and  quavering  utterance  which 
were  emphasized.  Ellen  Terry's  bouncing  free- 
dom of  movement  made  her  acting  easy  to 
copy.  The  liquid  speech  and  the  peculiar 
poise  of  the  head  render  it  easy  for  such  clev- 
er impersonators  as  Cecilia  Loftus  and  Elsie 
Janis  to  suggest  the  manner  of  Ethel  Barry- 
more,  while  other  traits,  inseparable  from  their 
personalities,    make    Maude   Adams,    Frances 

[70] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  PLAY 

Starr,  and  especially  Mrs.  Fiske  shining  marks 
for  their  humorous  copyists. 

In  other  years  it  was  always "  possible  to 
imitate  E.  J.  Henley  by  merely  intensifying 
the  pauses  which  recurred  constantly  in  his 
delivery  of  the  lines  of  a  play.  This  propensity 
in  his  acting  was  usually  referred  to  deprecat- 
ingly  as  a  mannerism,  but  actually  it  was  one 
of  his  most  powerful  means  of  expression. 
Few  actors  use  the  pause  naturally,  and  many, 
in  attempting  to  cultivate  it,  end  by  becoming 
tedious.  But  when  the  dramatic  pause  is 
uncultivated,  it  becomes  a  God-given  ability. 
The  actor  who  employs  it  spontaneously  is 
not  conscious  that  he  is  using  it.  I  have  often 
thought,  in  the  case  of  David  Warfield,  that 
the  hesitations  which  punctuate  the  utterance 
of  his  speeches  are  the  true  secret  of  his  power 
and  eloquence. 

All  these  idiosyncrasies  in  my  actors  I  try 
to  preserve,  when  they  are  not  so  pronounced 
that  they  seem  to  be  affectations.  I  direct 
them  so  that  such  personal  peculiarities  will 
be  put  to  effective  uses.  This  is  one  of  the 
reasons  why  I  always  work  with  the  company 
before  me.  Of  late  there  has  sprung  up  a 
practice  of  organizing  several  companies — in 
some  instances  half  a  dozen — and  sending 
them  on  tour  in  plays  which  happen  to  have 
met  with  unusual  popularity  in  New  York. 
There   is   a   great   commercial   advantage   in 

[71] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

such  a  policy,  for  it  permits  the  profits  of  a 
successful  play  to  be  quickly  gathered  and  it 
simplifies  the  work  of  the  producer,  because 
invariably  the  secondary  companies  attempt 
no  more  than  to  imitate  the  methods  of  the 
original  organization.  For  this  reason  bad 
art  must  inevitably  result.  Therefore  I  am 
opposed  to  it.  I  have  never  directed  a  second 
company;  if  I  did,  I  fear  I  would  change  all 
the  business  of  the  play,  and  possibly  make 
alterations  in  the  play  itself.  I  would  dis- 
cover immediately  that  what  one  set  of  play- 
ers could  do  most  effectively  in  a  certain  man- 
ner, another  set  would  have  to  do  in  a  wholly 
different  way,  dependent  upon  the  tempera- 
ment, personality,  and  technical  equipment 
of  each.  When  actors  attempt  only  to  imitate 
a  model,  they  become  automatons  and  the 
artistic  finish  of  both  the  play  and  its  per- 
formance is  consequently  sacrificed. 

So  we  go  over  the  speeches  time  after  time, 
generally  spending  a  week  or  ten  days  on 
each  act.  During  this  period  I  have  insisted 
that  my  actors  avoid  trying  to  memorize  their 
r61es  until  their  conception  of  them  is  fully 
formed  and  they  are  actually  molded  into  the 
characters.  Otherwise,  with  every  word  glibly 
at  their  tongues'  ends,  they  will  presently 
begin  to  talk  like  parrots.  Furthermore,  they 
are  always  unconsciously  studying  and  mem- 
orizing while  rehearsing. 

[72] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  PLAY 

Again  come  the  changes — the  inevitable 
changes — in  the  play.  Ways  of  improving  it 
constantly  suggest  themselves.  If  it  seems  too 
heavy  at  a  certain  point,  it  must  be  lightened; 
if  too  tearful,  laughter  must  be  brought  into 
it.  Not  a  dozen,  but  a  hundred,  littk  touches 
are  sometimes  possible.  If  an  excessively 
talkative  scene  threatens  to  tire  an  audience 
because  of  the  babel  of  voices,  the  effect  may 
be  relieved  by  leaving  the  stage  vacant  mo- 
mentarily in  the  scene  which  follows.  Para- 
doxical as  it  may  seem,  nothing  at  times  helps 
a  play  so  much  as  a  momentarily  empty  stage. 

A  drama  implies  a  story  told  in  action,  but 
I  believe  in  permitting  characters  to  remain 
in  repose  if  the  conditions  under  which  the 
story  is  related  demand  repose.  The  natural 
exposition  of  the  plot  of  one  of  my  productions, 
''The  Concert,"  required,  in  the  first  act,  that 
the  wife  of  the  philandering  music-teacher 
and  the  husband  of  his  infatuated  pupil  remain 
seated  and  in  conversation  for  forty  minutes. 
During  the  early  rehearsals  I  was  considerably 
disturbed  because  I  feared  that  these  two 
characters,  with  nothing  to  do  but  talk,  might 
not  be  able  to  hold  the  interest  of  the  audience. 
Yet  the  scene  itself  was  restful,  and  the  inaction 
seemed  perfectly  natural.  I  hesitated  three 
days  while  I  tried  to  introduce  speeches  to 
create  "business,"  but  it  never  quite  suited 
me.     The    "business"    I    improvised   seemed 

[73] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

always  to  interrupt  the  drift  of  the  story.  At 
last  I  took  desperate  chances  and  gave  instruc- 
tions to  my  two  players  to  sit  still.  On  the 
opening  night,  still  uncertain  of  the  wisdom 
of  my  plan,  I  carefully  watched  the  effect 
of  that  scene  on  the  audience.  Not  for  an 
instant  did  the  long-drawn-out  conversation 
lose  its  grip  upon  the  attention.  The  reason 
was  that  it  was  the  natural  thing  for  the 
characters  to  do.  When  critics  complain  that 
a  play  "lacks  action"  it  is  because  there  is 
something  other  than  action  which  is  fun- 
damentally wrong  with  the  play  itself.  No 
experience  in  the  world  can  teach  an  actor  or 
producer  to  follow  absolute  naturalness — the 
instinct  must  be  born  in  him. 

I  change  not  only  details  in  the  play  during 
these  rehearsals,  but  also  in  the  lighting  of 
the  stage,  for  the  reason  that  the  spell  pro- 
duced by  light  is  an  incalculable  aid  to  the 
art  of  the  actor.  Light  has  a  psychological 
effect  which  perhaps  he  is  not  able  to  under- 
stand or  explain,  but  he  feels  it  instantly  and 
responds  to  it,  and  then  the  audience  just  as 
quickly  responds  to  him.  I  have  sometimes 
doubled  the  persuasiveness  of  a  speech,  not 
by  changing  a  word  written  by  the  author,  or 
an  intonation  or  gesture  by  the  actor,  but  by 
increasing  the  value  of  the  light  in  which  the 
character  stands.  The  secret  is  that  it  is 
much  easier  to  appeal  to  the  hearts  of  audiences 

[74I 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  PLAY 

through  their  senses  than  through  their  intel- 
lects. People  go  to  the  play  to  have  their 
emotions  stirred.  When  they  respond  they 
become  a  part  of  the  play  itself.  We  on  the 
stage  instantly  feel  this  subtle  influence,  so 
they  really  give  us  more  than  we  give  them. 

The  rehearsals  up  to  this  time  have  been 
held  first  on  an  empty  stage  and  then,  as  the 
actors  have  gradually  gained  in  proficiency, 
with  substitute  scenery.  Each  act  has  been 
attacked  singly,  without  proceeding  to  the 
next  until  the  one  in  hand  runs  perfectly 
smoothly.  Then  comes  the  day  when,  still 
using  the  substitute  scenery,  all  the  acts  are 
put  together  for  the  first  time.  At  this  first 
consecutive  rehearsal  of  the  entire  play  I  am 
very  easy  with  my  people,  as  it  seems  to 
require  all  their  vitality  and  strength.  But 
they  grow  into  it  quickly,  for  by  this  time 
I  have  drilled  the  company  until  the  words 
of  their  parts  have  become  like  the  ones  they 
learned  to  lisp  in  childhood.  If  I  have  dis- 
covered words  which  they  cannot  pronounce 
well,  I  have  changed  them;  if,  under  stress  of 
emotion,  there  are  other  words  which  they  are 
likely  to  slur,  I  find  easier  equivalents. 

During  all  the  time  that  rehearsals  have 
been  in  progress — and  perhaps  for  many  weeks 
or  even  months  before  the  first  reading — other 
preparations  for  the  production  have  been 
going  on.     Carpenters  have  been  building  the 

[75] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

scenery  in  my  shop,  artists  have  been  painting 
it  at  their  studios,  electricians  have  been  mak- 
ing the  paraphernaHa  for  the  Hghting  effects, 
property  men  have  been  manufacturing  or 
buying  the  various  objects  needed  in  their 
department,  and  costumers  and  wig-makers 
have  been  at  work.  All  these  adjuncts  to  the 
play  have  been  timed  to  be  ready  when  they 
are  needed.  At  last  comes  the  order  to  put 
them  together.  Then  for  three  or  four  days 
my  stage  resembles  a  house  in  process  of 
being  furnished.  Confusion  reigns  supreme 
with  carpenters  putting  on  door-knobs,  decora- 
tors hanging  draperies,  workmen  laying  carpets 
and  rugs,  and  furniture  men  taking  measure- 
ments. 

Everything  has  been  selected  by  me  in 
advance.  My  explorations  in  search  of  stage 
equipment  are  really  the  most  interesting 
parts  of  my  work.  I  attend  auction  sales 
and  haunt  antique-shops,  hunting  for  the  things 
I  want.  I  rummage  in  stores  in  the  richest 
as  well  as  in  the  poorest  sections  of  New  York. 
Many  of  the  properties  must  be  especially 
made,  and  it  has  even  happened  that  I  have 
been  compelled  to  send  agents  abroad  to  find 
exactly  the  things  I  need.  For  instance,  I 
sent  an  agent  to  Bath,  England,  to  buy  all 
the  principal  properties  for  "Sweet  Kitty  Bel- 
lairs."  It  was  necessary,  also,  to  send  to  Paris 
to  obtain  many  of  the    objects  which  fitted 

[76] 


THE   EVOLUTION  OF  A   PLAY 

into  the  period  of  "Du  Barry."  I  purchased 
the  old  Dutch  furniture  I  used  in  "The  Return 
of  Peter  Grimm"  fully  two  years  before  I  had 
put  the  finishing  touches  on  the  writing  of 
that  play,  and  most  of  the  Oriental  para- 
phernalia of  "The  Darling  of  the  Gods"  I 
imported  direct  from  Japan. 

When  I  produced  "The  Easiest  Way"  I 
tound  myself  in  a  dilemma.  I  planned  one 
of  its  scenes  to  be  an  exact  counterpart  of  a 
little  hall  bedroom  in  a  cheap  theatrical  board- 
ing-house in  New  York.  We  tried  to  build 
the  scene  in  my  shops,  but,  somehow,  we 
could  not  make  it  look  shabby  enough.  So 
I  went  to  the  meanest  theatrical  lodging-house 
I  could  find  in  the  Tenderloin  district  and 
bought  the  entire  interior  of  one  of  its  most 
dilapidated  rooms — patched  furniture,  thread- 
bare carpet,  tarnished  and  broken  gas  fix- 
tures, tumble-down  cupboards,  dingy  doors 
and  window-casings,  and  even  ihe  faded  paper 
on  the  walls.  The  landlady  regarded  me  with 
amazement  when  I  offered  to  replace  them 
with  new  furnishings. 

While  the  scenery  and  properties  are  being 
put  together  I  lurk  around  with  my  note-book 
in  hand,  studying  the  stage,  watching  for 
defects  in  color  harmonies,  and  endeavoring 
to  make  every  scene  conform  to  the  char- 
acteristics of  the  people  who  are  supposed  to 
inhabit  them.     However  great  the  precaution 

I77] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

I  may  have  observed,  I  generally  decide  to 
make  m.any  more  changes.  Then,  when  the 
stage  is  furnished  to  my  satisfaction,  I  bring 
my  company  up  from  the  reading-room  and 
introduce  them  to  the  scenes  and  surroundings 
in  which  they  are  to  live  in  the  play. 


IV 

There  is  a  vast  difference  between  rehears- 
ing a  company  on  an  empty  stage  and  in  the 
fully  equipped  settings  of  a  play.  The  change 
involves  retracing  many  steps  which  have 
already  been  taken,  and  undoing  many  things 
which  seemingly  have  been  done  well;  but 
I  have  been  unable  to  discover  a  way  to  avoid 
it.  Now  we  have  the  actual  width  and  depth 
of  the  stage  to  guide  us  and  we  are  able  to 
time  with  mathematical  exactness  entrances  and 
exits  and  the  movements  of  the  actors  from 
one  place  to  another.  When  the  characters 
are  put  into  the  permanent  scenes,  the  stage 
director  must  also  consider  them  from  a  some- 
what different  point  of  view.  The  players 
must  be  adapted  to  the  scene,  not  the  scene 
to  the  players,  for  the  effort  should  always  be 
to  lose  the  identity  of  the  scene  and  intensify 
the  identity  of  the  characters.  I  have  always 
been  a  strong  advocate  of  stage  settings  which 
stimulate  the  imagination  of  rny  audiences 
and  at  the  same  time  adorn  my  plays,  but 

1 78] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  PLAY 

first,  last,  and  always  I  try  not  to  attract  the 
eye  when  attention  should  be  fixed  upon  the 
dialogue. 

However  carefully  I  have  rehearsed  my 
company,  I  still  find  opportunities  for  beneficial 
changes.  Necessity  arises  for  shifting  the 
positions  of  the  actors.  The  various  proper- 
ties, each  in  its  appointed  place,  help  to 
suggest  new  "business."  Details  which  first 
seemed  very  effective  to  me  suddenly  lose 
their  value.  Since  these  alterations  must  in- 
evitably occur,  it  is  very  unfair  to  actors  to 
delay  until  the  final  rehearsal  before  putting 
them  into  the  scenes  in  which  the  public  is 
to  see  them  and  in  which  they  are  to  be  judged. 

At  last,  when  every  little  imperfection  in 
the  interpretations  of  the  characters  has  been 
detected  and  perfected,  I  set  apart  one  per- 
formance at  which  I  try  not  to  consider  the 
acting,  but  the  play  itself.  I  am  on  the  look- 
out for  repetitions  in  the  dialogue  that  may 
have  escaped  me,  unduly  emphatic  speeches 
and  climaxes  that  have  not  been  consistently 
approached,  I  keep  a  stenographer  beside  me 
taking  down  notes  and  suggestions,  for  I  try 
not  to  interrupt  the  performance  or  interfere 
with  the  inspiration  of  the  players.  These 
final  changes  made,  the  company  is  bidden 
to  become  letter-perfect  in  their  roles  as  they 
are  now  developed.  This  task  of  unlearning 
and  learning  again  is  one  of  the  hardest  that 
6  [79I 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

an  actor  is  called  upon  to  perform.  It  needs 
a  trained  mind  to  do  it  quickly  and  successfully. 

I  make  it  a  practice  to  allot  one  entire  day 
for  my  people  to  attend  to  the  details  of  their 
costumes.  Innumerable  little  purchases  and 
fixings  must  be  made,  especially  by  the  women. 
I  utilize  this  time  making  the  final  adjustment 
of  my  lights,  for  I  have  now  decided  upon  the 
exact  effects  I  require.  It  may  take  hours 
or,  perhaps,  a  whole  day  and  a  night,  in  a 
darkened  theatre,  for  the  timing  of  lights  is 
quite  as  important  as  the  timing  of  the  move- 
ments of  the  players.  For  instance,  the  transi- 
tion from  afternoon  to  sunset  must  create  a 
perfect  illusion,  or  else,  in  its  abruptness,  it 
will  become  ridiculous.  The  perfect  lighting 
of  a  stage  can  be  accomplished  only  when  the 
electricians  become  as  familiar  with  the  play 
as  the  actors  themselves.  I  may  say  that  I 
fully  appreciate  how  great  is  the  assistance 
my  productions  have  gained  from  these  small- 
paid  men.  They  do  not  work  mechanically, 
but  with  their  hearts  and  souls,  for,  once  hav- 
ing comprehended  the  spirit  of  the  play,  they 
are  as  dexterous  with  the  appliances  for 
regulating  the  lights  as  musicians  with  their 
instruments. 

In  arranging  my  final  lighting  effects  I  give 
special  heed  to  the  complexions  and  make-ups 
of  my  people.  I  especially  try  to  protect  the 
appearance  of  the  women.     Every  feature  of 

rso] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A   PLAY 

a  woman's  face — nose,  eyes,  cheek-bones, 
mouth,  profile — helps  to  determine  the  inten- 
sity and  color  of  the  light  that  should  be  thrown 
upon  it.  Always  I  am  an  enemy  of  white 
lights,  for  their  effect  is  to  make  the  skin 
appear  pasty.  That  is  why  the  poor  vaude- 
ville girl  always  has  an  ordeal  to  pass  through 
when  she  comes  out  on  the  stage  to  perform 
her  little  specialty. 

At  about  this  time,  if  all  the  costimies  are 
ready,  I  hold  what  I  call  my  "dress  parade." 
I  have  my  actors  dress  exactly  as  they  are  to 
be  seen  in  the  play,  with  every  detail  of  cloth- 
ing— shoes,  gloves,  neckties,  wigs,  beards,  and 
cosmetics  complete — and  march  them  back 
and  forth  across  the  stage.  It  frequently 
happens  that  changes  will  be  advisable  in  the 
appearance  of  some  of  them,  and  the  time  to 
decide  such  matters  is  now.  I  supply  every 
detail  of  the  wardrobe  which  actors  wear  on 
my  stage,  whether  I  am  producing  a  costume 
drama  or  a  modem  comedy.  In  every  respect 
the  production  and  all  that  pertains  to  it  must 
be  in  perfect  harmony.  I  take  pains  to 
caution  the  players  to  "make  up"  with  refer- 
ence to  the  predominating  tone  of  the  lighting 
of  the  stage.  In  my  own  theatres  the  dressing- 
rooms  are  equipped  with  rows  of  electric  bulbs 
of  every  hue,  so  that  the  actors  may  gauge 
the  exact  effect  of  the  pigments  which  they 
put  on  their  faces.     But  when,  occasionally, 

[8i] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

I  have  produced  plays  in  other  houses  than 
my  own,  this  important  precaution  has  not 
been  possible,  and  sometimes  it  has  led  to 
grave  defects  in  the  appearance  of  some  of 
the  characters. 

When  I  produced  "The  Heart  of  Wetona" 
I  gave  careful  instructions  to  William  Court- 
leigh  how  I  wanted  him  to  disguise  himself 
as  the  Comanche  Indian  Chief,  Quanna;  but 
invariably,  when  he  came  out  before  the  foot- 
lights, his  face  presented  a  different  effect 
than  I  had  intended.  I  was  mystified  for  a 
time,  but  finally  I  asked  him  what  was  the 
color  of  the  lights  in  his  dressing-room.  He 
replied  that  they  were  white.  That  solved 
the  mystery  immediately,  for  under  white 
lights  he  had  been  trying  to  contrive  an  effect 
which  the  audience  was  to  see  in  a  scene  that 
was  amber  in  the  tone  of  its  illumination.  I 
thereupon  gave  orders  to  have  amber  lights 
placed  around  his  dressing-mirror,  and  from 
that  time  he  found  no  further  difficulty  in 
making  Quanna  look  like  a  real  Indian  chief. 

The  dress  parade  over,  and  the  time  for  the 
dress  rehearsals  being  at  hand,  I  give  my 
attention  to  a  curtain  rehearsal.  One  who  is 
not  familiar  with  the  little  touches,  apart  from 
the  play  itself,  which  aid  the  general  effect 
of  a  dramatic  production  may  not  realize  how 
important  it  is  to  have  the  curtain  work  in 
harmony  with  the  feeling  of  the  scene  upon 

[82] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  PLAY 

which  it  rises  and  falls.  I  have  sometimes 
experimented  with  a  curtain  fifty  times,  raising 
or  lowering  it  rapidly,  slowly,  or  at  medium 
speed.  The  curtain  men  must  be  taught  to 
feel  the  climaxes  as  keenly  as  the  actors  and  to 
work  in  unison  with  them.  This  is  a  good 
time,  also,  if  the  play  have  a  musical  accom- 
paniment, to  rehearse  the  score  with  my 
orchestra-leader  and  musicians,  and  weld  them 
into  parts  of  the  completed  whole. 

We  are  ready  for  the  final  dress  rehearsals 
now.  The  production,  which  has  been  develop- 
ing day  by  day  for  six  weeks  or  more,  has 
become  as  complete  and  its  performance  is  as 
spontaneous  as  if  it  were  being  given  before 
a  crowded  audience. 

The  stage  is  ordered  cleared,  the  actors  are 
sent  to  their  dressing-rooms  to  get  themselves 
ready,  and  I  take  my  place,  with  my  scenic 
artists  and  others  attached  to  my  staff,  in  the 
front  of  the  empty  theatre.  The  people  are 
likely  to  be  more  nervous  than  on  a  real 
opening  night,  for  they  are  conscious  that  they 
are  to  be  subjected  to  concentrated  criticism 
from  which  there  is  no  appeal.  In  a  crowded 
theatre  they  are  sure  of  pleasing  at  least  a 
part  of  the  audience;  it  is  a  different  affair 
when  they  are  trying  to  meet  the  approval 
of  only  one  person.  The  introductory  music, 
if  there  be  music,  is  played,  up  goes  the  cur- 
tain, and  the  performance  begins. 

[83I 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

I  try  not  to  interrupt  if  it  can  possibly  be 
avoided,  preferring  to  reserve  my  criticisms 
imtil  the  end.  But  if  indefensible  mistakes 
occur — if,  for  instance,  a  character  on  leaving 
a  drawing-room  forgets  his  hat  or  stick  or 
gloves — I  am  cruel  enough  in  my  comments 
to  make  sure  that  the  blunder  will  never  occur 
again.  It  is  too  late  now  for  praising,  coaxing, 
or  cajoling.  I  go  on  the  principle  that  the 
good  things  will  take  care  of  themselves,  but 
that  not  a  single  flaw  must  be  left  undetected. 
The  dress  rehearsal  ended,  I  commend  the 
company  when  I  can,  reprove  them  when  I 
must,  and  generally  discuss  tempo,  deport- 
ment, and  elocution — everything,  in  fact,  that 
suggests  itself  to  me.  Then  the  curtain  is 
lowered,  the  scene  is  "struck,"  and  we  go 
over  the  play  again  and  again  until,  so  far  as 
I  can  judge,  nothing  more  remains  to  be  done. 

I  have  never  been  in  favor  of  following  the 
French  system  of  holding  public  rehearsals, 
although  the  practice  is  gradually  gaining 
vogue  in  this  country.  But  at  the  final  dress 
rehearsal  I  find  it  advantageous  to  invite  a 
dozen  or  more  people.  Their  presence  not 
only  helps  my  actors,  but  also  assists  me.  I 
watch  the  faces  of  these  guests  much  more 
closely  than  I  watch  the  performance,  for  their 
changing  expressions  enable  me  to  gauge  the 
effect  upon  them  of  each  little  episode  or 
speech,  and  in  this  way  I  sometimes  obtain 

I84] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  PLAY 

ideas  which  have  not  occurred  to  me  before. 
I  do  not  place  much  reliance  in  the  compli- 
ments they  may  offer — I  depend,  rather,  on 
my  own  intuition  of  the  effect  which  the 
play  and  the  actors  have  produced  upon  their 
minds  and  emotions. 

At  last  comes  the  day  toward  which  for  weeks 
we  have  all  been  looking  forward  with  mingled 
happiness  and  misgivings.  Every  detail  of 
the  production,  so  far  as  careful  forethought 
and  painstaking  preparation  can  anticipate, 
is  complete.  We  are  now  ready  to  give  our 
work  its  public  test.  Of  late  years  dramatic 
producers,  no  matter  how  great  their  con- 
fidence in  their  methods  or  their  certainty  of 
success,  rarely  risk  a  first  performance  of  their 
plays  before  a  New  York  audience.  There 
are  several  reasons  which  dictate  this  wise 
precaution.  It  is  so  easy  to  be  misled  by  the 
kindly  enthusiasm  of  a  metropolitan  first- 
night  crowd.  Such  assemblages  invariably 
contain,  in  large  ntmibers,  friends  of  the  au- 
thor, actors,  or  management.  Various  motives 
will  enter  to  influence  the  verdict  they  may 
pass  upon  the  play  and  its  performance.  I 
do  not  mean  to  imply  that  I  distrust  the 
opinion  or  taste  of  general  audiences  in  New 
York  on  matters  pertaining  to  dramatic  art; 
on  the  contrary,  I  believe  their  views  to  be 
more  catholic  and  substantial  than  any  other 
audience  in  the  world.     But  in  the  case  of 

[85I 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

New  York's  typical  first-night  assemblage,  per- 
sonal interests  are  stire  to  enter,  and  it  is 
our  business  now  to  court  candid  judgment 
that  is  unbiased  either  pro  or  con. 

There  is  an  even  more  important  considera- 
tion that  dictates  a  preliminary  tour  for  a 
play  before  it  settles  down  for  the  metropolitan 
run  which  means  so  much  for  its  subsequent 
fate  elsewhere.  It  is  an  axiom  of  the  profes- 
sion of  the  theatre,  which  has  been  proved  by 
experience  times  without  nimiber,  that  only  by 
performing  it  publicly  can  all  the  imperfec- 
tions of  a  play  be  detected.  Only  by  this 
practical  test,  also,  is  the  actor  able  to  judge 
his  own  work  definitely  and  become  conscious 
of  its  shortcomings.  A  score  of  professional 
play- judges,  whether  they  be  experienced  pro- 
ducers or  experienced  critics,  may  unanimously 
vote  that  a  play  is  perfect,  and  still  it  may  fall 
flat  when  acted  before  a  paid  audience.  Or, 
on  the  other  hand,  an  assemblage  of  the  most 
liberal-minded  producers  and  critics  in  the 
world  may  unanimously  decide  that  the  doom 
of  a  play  is  sealed,  and  it  will  be  received  by 
audiences  with  acclaim. 

It  is  this  uncertainty  which  has  made  the 
profession  of  the  dramatic  author  and  the 
dramatic  producer  through  all  the  centuries 
of  the  English-speaking  theatre  so  interesting 
and  at  the  same  time  so  precarious.  They 
are  destined  always  to  match  their  best  effort 

[86  1 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  PLAY 

against  the  changing  whim  and  taste  of  an 
inscrutable  and  arbitrary  pubUc,  and  they 
can  never  be  sure  of  its  outcome  until  that 
effort  is  judged  in  the  forum  of  public  opinion. 
The  workers  in  other  branches  of  the  fine  arts, 
in  a  measure,  escape  this  implacable  test. 
The  poet,  the  painter,  or  the  sculptor,  if  his 
effort  be  worthy,  may  wait  for  the  judgment 
that  finds  merit  in  what  he  has  done.  But 
the  fate  of  a  work  of  dramatic  art  is  decided 
abruptly,  once  and  for  all. 

So  we  start  out.  I  always  aim  to  arrange 
for  my  companies  a  preliminary  tour  of  from 
two  to  four  weeks,  and  during  that  period  the 
play  is  subjected  to  constant  revision.  The 
speeches  which,  in  rehearsals,  I  thought  would 
produce  a  thrill  may  be  received  in  silence. 
The  situation  which  seemed  so  sure  to  compel 
tears  may  provoke  smiles.  In  a  dozen  ways, 
perhaps,  effects  so  carefully  planned  will  be 
the  exact  opposite  of  what  was  intended. 
I  do  not  need  to  sit  in  the  audience  or  study 
the  faces  of  the  people,  but,  standing  at  the 
side  of  the  stage,  I  can  feel  the  audience's  mood. 
The  rustling  of  programs,  coughing,  the  shuf- 
fling of  feet — all  these  tell  their  story  more 
plainly  than  words  can  express.  Each  means 
revision,  blue-penciling,  or  transposition. 

With  time  pressing  and  under  uncomfortable 
conditions  the  play  is  being  altered  again  and 
new  shadings  are  given  to  the  interpretations 

[87] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

of  the  characters.  As  soon  as  the  regular  per- 
formance is  at  an  end  and  the  theatre  is  empty, 
we  begin  to  rehearse.  Parts  of  the  play,  here 
and  there,  are  gone  over  again  and  again,  and 
new  methods  are  tried  in  the  effort  to  achieve 
a  desired  effect.  Sometimes  these  supple- 
mentary rehearsals  are  prolonged  until  the 
early  morning  hours,  when  my  weary  actors 
disperse  to  catch  a  little  sleep  before  taking 
the  train  to  the  next  city.  But  the  date  for 
our  return  has  already  been  set  and  eventually 
we  find  ourselves  back  in  New  York. 

If  possible,  I  avoid  holding  the  first  per- 
formance of  a  new  play  in  my  New  York 
theatres  on  a  Monday  night.  Much  more 
satisfactory  results  are  reached  by  giving  the 
members  of  my  company  a  day  or  two  to  rest 
and  recover  their  equilibrium.  Then  comes  the 
birth — the  real  birth — of  the  play. 

On  the  opening  night  I  go  to  the  theatre 
early.  I  visit  my  people  in  their  dressing- 
rooms,  trying,  when  possible,  to  chat  on  sub- 
jects not  connected  with  the  play,  but,  when 
necessary,  reminding  them  and  cautioning 
them  of  little  touches,  here  and  there,  in  their 
work.  They  are  all  on  their  mettle,  of  course, 
and  I  know  from  our  weeks  of  association  and 
labor  that  they  are  as  anxious  for  the  success 
of  the  play  as  I. 

During  the  performance  I  never  sit  in  the 
audience,  but  stand  in  the  entrances  to  the 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A   PLAY 

stage — watching,  directing,  trying  to  quiet 
nervousness  and  to  inspire  confidence.  I  con- 
stantly tell  my  people  of  reports  that  I  have 
heard  from  the  front  of  the  theatre,  though 
really  I  have  heard  nothing,  for  I  cut  myself 
off  completely  from  the  first-night  audience. 
While  the  performance  is  in  progress  I  never 
reprove,  no  matter  what  occurs,  but  always 
encourage.  My  actors  are  nothing  more  than 
emotional  children — creatures  of  impulse — and 
in  this  grueling  test  I  treat  them  as  such.  At 
last  the  final  curtain  falls.  The  applause 
ends  and  we  hear  the  audience  leave  the 
theatre.  We  are  conscious,  at  least,  that  we 
have  all  done  our  best,  and  we  await  the 
public's  verdict. 


Chapter  III 
DEVELOPING  THE  BEST  IN  THE  ACTOR 


TT  is  at  once  a  disadvantage  and  an  advantage 
*  to  the  dramatic  producer  who  sets  a  high 
ideal  for  his  work  that  this  country,  which 
supports  the  theatre  more  generously  than 
any  other,  does  not  provide  such  a  school  for 
the  training  of  dramatic  ability  as  the  Paris 
Conservatoire. 

Talent  must  come  to  the  American  stage 
untutored.  Since  he  is  denied  the  preparatory 
courses  of  study  which  would  be  considered 
necessary  for  the  successful  practice  of  any 
other  of  the  artistic  professions,  the  actor,  to  a 
great  extent,  is  a  victim  of  the  influences  and 
circimistances  which  attend  his  first  entrance 
into  the  theatre.  His  fortunes,  especially  in 
the  early  period  of  his  career,  are  nearly  always 
the  result  of  accident,  not  of  discipline.  That  is 
why  personality  counts  for  so  much  on  oiu"  stage 
to-day.  It  also  explains  why  so  many  among 
even  our  most  popular  actors  seem  unable  to 
progress  beyond  the  constant  performance  of 
types   of  character  which  fall  within  a  very 

[90] 


DEVELOPING  THE  BEST  IN  THE  ACTOR 

limited  range  of  technique,  or  are  identical  with 
their  own  temperaments  and  natures. 

To  the  dramatic  producer,  who  does  not 
have  the  special  ability  to  mold  and  develop 
latent  talent  in  the  actor  to  suit  his  imme- 
diate purposes,  the  disadvantage  of  these  con- 
ditions in  the  theatre,  for  which  there  seems 
to  be  no  practical  remedy,  is  that  he  must 
accept  his  actors  as  they  offer  themselves  to 
him.  His  ambition  may  have  set  a  high 
standard  for  the  work  to  which  he  gives  his 
energies;  but  in  the  end  the  result  will  be 
limited  by  the  caliber  of  the  acting  with  which 
he  is  compelled  to  deal. 

If,  however,  the  producer  have  the  ability 
to  teach  and  develop,  as  well  as  direct;  if  he 
be  able,  through  peculiar  methods  of  his  own, 
to  make  the  actors  who  come  under  his  man- 
agement respond  to  his  conception  of  char- 
acter, the  conditions  in  our  theatre  operate 
to  his  advantage.  By  requiring  him  to  be  on 
the  lookout  constantly  for  promising  new 
material  for  his  companies,  and  by  forcing 
him  to  depend  upon  his  own  methods  for  the 
interpretation  of  characters,  he  is  able  to  stamp 
upon  all  his  productions,  no  matter  how  they 
may  differ  in  the  kinds  of  interest  they  offer, 
the  distinguishing  mark  of  his  own  individual- 
ity. To  this  extent  he  sets  himself  apart  from 
the  group  of  routine  stage-managers  and  be- 
comes a  creative  artist. 

[91] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

In  my  own  experience  through  many  years 
as  a  dramatic  producer  I  have  found  it  advan- 
tageous to  develop  by  my  own  methods  the 
people  who  have  appeared  in  my  plays.  In 
selecting  them  I  have  always,  as  far  as  possible, 
given  no  less  careful  consideration  to  their 
pliabiHty  and  willingness  to  respond  to  my 
training  than  to  their  prospective  ability. 

Many  men  and  women  during  this  time 
have  risen  to  distinction  in  my  theatres.  Some, 
no  doubt,  would  have  succeeded  as  well  if 
they  had  lived  their  careers  under  other  in- 
fluences. The  peculiar  qualities  which  are 
combined  in  the  great  dramatic  artist  must  be 
born  in  him.  They  imply  imagination  and 
emotional  faculties  which  are  gifts  of  nature 
that  cannot  be  transmitted  or  acquired.  No 
process  of  training  can  develop  histrionic  genius 
that  does  not  already  exist  in  latent  form.  So 
it  would  not  be  just  to  the  noted  stars  of  my 
stages  for  me  to  assume  all  credit  for  what 
they  have  accomplished,  though  their  develop- 
ment in  many  instances  took  place  imder  my 
guidance. 

When  a  young  woman — or  a  yoimg  man — 
comes  to  me  with  ambitions  to  go  on  the  stage, 
or  when,  from  bits  of  acting  I  may  have  seen 
them  do,  I  am  convinced  that  they  have  the 
qualifications  for  success  and  that  my  interest 
in  them  will  result  to  our  mutual  advantage, 
I  can  usually  decide,  after  a  very  few  minutes* 

[92] 


Photo  Straus-Peyton  Stiuiin 


Lenore  Ulric 
One  of  the  newest  of  the  Belasco  stare 


Frances  Starr 


David  Warfield 

His    most    characteristic    and    best 
personal  photograph. 


Photo  Albert  Davis  Collection 

Mrs.  Leslie  Carter 


DEVELOPING  THE   BEST  IN  THE  ACTOR 

conversation,  in  what  direction  their  best 
possibilities  He.  I  try  to  determine  their  views 
of  life  and  what  have  been  their  experiences 
with  life.  This  attitude  toward  the  world 
around  them  is  likely  to  dictate  whether  they 
are  best  suited  to  comedy  or  serious  drama,  to 
roles  of  humorous  or  emotional  interest.  I 
do  not  ask  that  they  talk  much  to  me;  I  pre- 
fer to  talk  to  them,  and  as  I  talk  I  watch  their 
eyes. 

Through  the  eyes  of  a  listener  I  can  form  a 
truer  judgment  of  his  emotional  capacity  and 
imaginative  faculty  than  in  any  other  way. 
The  power  to  listen  well  on  the  part  of  an  actor 
or  actress  has  a  greater  effect  upon  the  heart 
and  imagination  of  an  audience  than  any  words 
written  by  a  poet.  I  have  always  found  that 
the  men  and  women  who  have  come  under 
my  direction  and  listened  well  with  their  eyes 
have  invariably  been  the  ones  who  have  climbed 
to  the  heights  of  their  profession. 

When  I  have  discovered  the  aptitude  for 
which  I  have  been  looking,  the  slow  processes 
of  the  training  then  begin.  It  would  be  an 
easy  task  for  the  stage  director,  if  he  could 
find  a  common  denominator  among  all  the 
people  who  come  under  his  control.  Then  he 
could  follow  a  set  method  in  developing  the 
best  that  is  in  them.  But  no  two  people  can 
be  taught  alike.  The  means  which  must  be 
followed  to  bring  about  the  desired  result  must 

[93I 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

be  as  various  as  the  temperaments,  intelli- 
gences, and  natures  of  the  actors  who  are  sub- 
ject to  them. 

It  is  most  important  that  the  individuality 
of  the  actor,  whatever  be  the  character  he  is 
to  interpret,  be  preserved,  for  individuality- 
is  an  essential  qualification  of  a  great  artist. 
So,  at  the  outset,  I  suggest  little  to  my  people, 
in  order  to  make  them  suggest  more.  I  appeal 
to  their  imagination,  emotion,  and  intelligence, 
and  draw  from  them  all  I  can.  When  I  can 
get  no  more  from  them,  I  then  give  them  all 
there  is  in  me.  I  coax  and  cajole,  or  bulldoze 
and  torment,  according  to  the  temperament 
with  which  I  have  to  deal. 

A  good  many  years  ago — the  calendar  has 
changed  more  than  twenty  times  since  then — 
the  literal  description  I  was  compelled  to  give, 
in  a  lawsuit,  of  the  means  by  which  I  developed 
Mrs.  Leslie  Carter  until  she  became  an  eminent 
emotional  star  was  misconstrued,  not  by  the 
court,  but  in  the  published  accounts  of  the 
proceedings,  until  the  popular  impression  gained 
of  my  methods  as  a  dramatic  producer  was 
that  I  was  a  veritable  Bluebeard  of  the  theatre. 
I  was  pictured  as  a  relentless  monster  who 
tyrannized  over  the  hapless  actors  who  fell 
into  my  clutches  and  brought  out  the  latent 
ability  in  them  by  sheer  brute  force. 

Mrs.  Carter  was  then  rising  rapidly  to  the 
place  of  great  distinction  she  afterward  at- 

[94] 


DEVELOPING  THE  BEST  IN  THE  ACTOR 

tained  as  a  star  under  my  guidance.  The 
humorous  writers  represented  me  as  having 
mauled  my  frail  victim  with  fiendishly  cal- 
culated brutality.  One  of  the  favorite  beliefs 
held  of  me  was  that  I  dragged  her  around  by 
the  hair  and  savagely  beat  her  head  against 
the  scenery  in  my  effort  to  stimulate  her 
emotional  fervor.  The  fact  that  one  of  Mrs. 
Carter's  physical  glories  was  her  bright-red 
hair  helped  to  make  this  alleged  phase  of  my 
training  of  her  the  more  picturesque. 

These  stories  did  not  end  with  the  newspaper 
reports  of  the  lawsuit.  They  became  an  in- 
spiration to  fiction- writers,  who  used  them  in 
stories;  and  sometimes,  to  my  great  amuse- 
ment, they  have  even  found  their  way  back 
to  me  in  the  form  of  sensational  episodes  in 
the  plays  of  amateur  dramatists. 

It  is  always  too  bad  to  spoil  a  good  story. 
But  I  must  do  so  now  for  the  first  time,  because 
what  I  was  misunderstood  to  say  in  my  testi- 
mony at  the  lawsuit  was,  in  fact,  one  of  the 
most  important  details  in  the  process  of  Mrs. 
Carter's  development  under  my  training. 

When  she  came  to  me,  fired  with  a  deter- 
mination to  become  a  great  actress,  and  I 
decided  to  undertake  her  stage  education,  my 
first  step  was  to  turn  Mrs.  Carter  over  to  the 
care  of  a  doctor  and  a  physical  instructor. 
She  had  been  passing  through  a  distracting 
domestic  crisis  and  was  both  bodily  and  ner- 

7  [95] 


THE  THEATRE    THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

voiisly  run  down.  I  outlined  a  systematic 
course  of  callisthenic  and  dancing  exercises, 
which  I  had  her  follow  for  the  cultivation  of 
grace  and  repose.  To  help  build  up  her  vital- 
ity and  strengthen  her  lungs  I  made  her  take 
long  walks  daily,  which  are  conducive  to  good 
health  and  bright  eyes. 

For  months  I  kept  her  at  this  physical 
training.  Although  she  was  most  conscientious 
in  following  my  formula,  she  could  not  under- 
stand what  such  things  had  to  do  with  acting 
on  the  stage.  When  her  strength  returned,  I 
arranged  a  carefully  laid -out  plan  of  vocal 
instruction  and  gradually  her  breathing,  enun- 
ciation, and  the  placing  of  her  voice  were  cor- 
rected and  improved.  I  had  observed  that  she 
was  a  very  nervous  woman,  given  to  too  much 
facial  expression,  so  I  kept  her  at  physical 
exercises  until  this  dangerous  fault  was  over- 
come. 

Weeks  lengthened  into  months  and  still  Mrs. 
Carter,  who  followed  a  routine  that  filled  almost 
the  entire  day,  was  not  permitted  to  try  to 
act.  When,  finally,  she  began  to  get  her  voice 
under  control  I  set  her  to  work  memorizing 
short  poems  and  simple  one-act  plays,  such  as 
"The  Happy  Pair"  and  "The  Conjugal  Les- 
son." Then  I  observed  that,  though  she  was 
at  ease  in  any  drawing-room,  she  became 
restrained,  clumsy,  and  uncertain  the  moment 
she  stepped  out  on  the  stage.     She  was  also 

[96] 


DEVELOPING  THE  BEST  IN  THE  ACTOR 

afraid  of  the  sound  of  her  own  voice,  which  is 
always  disturbing  at  first  to  any  new  actress. 
So  I  had  her  read  aloud  each  day  for  hours 
until  she  grew  accustomed  to  hear  herself  speak. 

Nearly  a  year  elapsed  while  Mrs.  Carter, 
with  a  willingness  and  persistency  which  showed 
how  great  was  her  determination  to  become 
an  actress,  kept  at  this  preliminary  and  not 
very  interesting  routine.  Then  arrived  the 
time  when  she  was  ready  to  begin  the  actual 
work  of  stage  training  and  I  commenced  to 
lead  her  into  the  art  of  impersonation  by 
drilling  her  in  selected  scenes  from  standard 
plays.  I  knew  she  was  an  enthusiastic  horse- 
woman, so  I  gave  her  the  speech  in  which  Lady 
Gay  Spanker  describes  the  race  in  "London 
Assurance,"  which  proved  useful  because  it 
required  rapid  enimciation  under  stress  of 
enthusiasm. 

To  develop  her  in  the  formal  mood  of  classi- 
cal comedy,  I  had  her  learn  and  act  whole 
scenes  from  "She  Stoops  to  Conquer,"  and  to 
teach  her  to  control  her  emotional  ability, 
which  she  possessed  from  the  first,  I  drilled 
her  over  and  over  again  in  the  tearful  parting 
scene  between  Father  Duval  and  Marguerite 
in  "Camille."  Then  she  became  proficient 
in  the  sleep-walking  scene  from  "Macbeth," 
which  is  important  to  the  training  of  any 
actress,  for  there  is  no  better  way  to  gain 
control  of  the  face,  body,  and  eyes. 

[97] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

Meanwhile  I  directed  that  Mrs.  Carter 
repeat  aloud  four  times  every  day  the  Second 
Player's  Speech  from  the  third  act  of  "Hamlet." 
In  the  whole  range  of  the  English  classic  drama 
there  is  no  passage  which  offers  so  many  diffi- 
culties to  clear  enunciation  and  right  diction 
as  these  six  lines,  which  run: 

Thoughts  black,  hands  apt,  drugs  fit,  and  time  agreeing; 
Confederate  season,  else  no  creature  seeing; 
Thou  mixture  rank,  of  midnight  weeds  collected, 
With  Hecate's  ban  thrice  blasted,  thrice  infected 
Thy  natural  magic  and  dire  property 
On  wholesome  life  usurp  immediately. 

The  actor  who  can  speak  this  complexly 
worded  speech  "trippingly  on  the  tongue,"  as 
Hamlet  puts  it,  has  mastered  one  of  the  great- 
est intricacies  of  the  English  language.  I  have 
discovered  few  in  my  whole  professional  experi- 
ence who  were  equal  to  it;  yet  so  industrious 
was  Mrs.  Carter  that  she  was  soon  able  to 
give  it  with  perfect  clarity  in  a  dozen  different 
moods. 

This  process  went  on  for  months.  To  stimu- 
late her  vivacity  Mrs.  Carter  learned  from 
end  to  end  the  role  of  Cyprienne  in  Sardou's 
"Divorgons,"  and  to  cultivate  the  tremendous 
outbursts  of  passion  which,  as  her  development 
progressed,  I  became  more  and  more  convinced 
were  eventually  to  become  her  forte  as  an 
actress,  I  drilled  her  in  the  violent  curse 
scene  from   "Leah,   the  Forsaken."     By  this 

[98] 


DEVELOPING  THE  BEST  IN  THE  ACTOR 

time  she  had  acquired  sufficient  technique 
to  utilize  to  best  advantage  all  her  natviral 
gifts  of  imagination  and  emotion.  Even  in  an 
empty  theatre,  without  that  nervous  exhilara- 
tion produced  by  an  audience's  presence,  she 
became  so  tremendous  in  this  passage  from 
the  old  play  that  she  reminded  me  vividly 
of  Clara  Morris  at  her  best. 

It  was  in  my  effort  to  drill  Mrs.  Carter 
in  sudden  transitions  of  intense  emotions  that 
I  hit  upon  a  scene  which,  when  I  afterward 
described  it  in  court,  made  me  appear  as  a 
ferocious  monster  who  would  stop  at  no  limit 
of  physical  violence  to  compel  my  actresses 
to  do  my  bidding.  In  the  whole  range  of 
modem  melodrama  there  is  no  episode  quite  so 
grisly  and  awe-compelling  as  the  one  in  "Oliver 
Twist,"  in  which  the  infuriated  Bill  Sykes 
beats  to  death  the  faithful  Nancy. 

I  secured  a  dramatization  of  Dickens's 
novel,  and  in  our  rehearsals  I  impersonated 
Bill,  while  Mrs.  Carter,  of  course,  represented 
Nancy.  In  outlining  the  realism  of  the  mtu*der 
scene  in  the  lawsuit  I  related  how  Bill  Sykes 
dragged  the  woman  by  the  hair  and  beat  her 
head  against  the  wall  and  furnittue.  The 
recital  proved  too  great  a  temptation  to  the 
court  reporters.  In  the  newspapers  next  morn- 
ing I  read  with  amusement,  not  unmixed  with 
chagrin,  how  I  had  confessed  to  stimulating 
Mrs.  Carter's  artistic  resources  by  resorting 

[99I 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

to  the  methods  of  the  caveman.  Perhaps  it  is 
unfortunate  to  explode  at  this  late  day  a  bit 
of  favorite  fiction  of  the  journalistic  humorists, 
but  the  truth  should  be  told,  nevertheless, 
in  the  story  of  Mrs.  Carter's  preparation  to 
tread  the  theatre's  path  to  fame. 

There  are  thousands  of  young  women  who 
turn  to  the  stage  in  the  mistaken  belief  that 
it  is  an  easy,  quick,  and  pleasant  way  to  suc- 
cess. I  advise  them  all  to  consider  carefully  the 
study  and  preparation  Mrs.  Carter  underwent 
in  order  to  make  possible  her  first  successful 
appearance  in  public  in  a  comparatively  simple 
play.  For  two  whole  years,  alone  in  her  apart- 
ment, in  my  studio,  and  on  the  barren  stages 
of  empty  theatres,  she  worked  almost  inces- 
santly. Every  phase  of  her  training,  even  to 
the  minutest  details,  I  devised  and  superin- 
tended. Every  step  she  took  was  with  my 
guidance.  At  the  end  of  that  time  the  founda- 
tion of  her  splendid  equipment  as  an  emotional 
star  had  been  laid,  and  she  had  become  the 
mistress  of  thirty  widely  contrasted,  difficult 
roles,  any  one  of  which  she  could  have  played 
at  two  hours'  notice. 

Mrs.  Carter's  exceptional  achievement  was 
the  result  of  gradual  and  systematic  develop- 
ment. Until  she  had  acquired  great  pro- 
ficiency as  an  artist  and  had  established  her- 
self with  her  public  I  was  careful  not  to  have 
her  appear  in  characters  which  were  out  of 

[  ioo] 


DEVELOPING  THE  BEST  IN  THE  ACTOR 

harmony  with  her  own  nature  and  tempera- 
ment. 

II 

It  is  when  actors  are  rigid  and  fixed  in  their 
methods,  especially  when  they  are  of  foreign 
nationalities,  that  the  stage  director  meets 
with  the  greatest  difficulty  in  counteracting 
their  temperamental  peculiarities  and  bending 
them  to  his  will.  I  found  out  how  great  this 
difficulty  is,  and  what  tact  and  patience  are 
needed  to  overcome  it,  when,  in  191 1,  I  di- 
rected at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  the 
dramatic  part  of  the  production  of  my  own 
"Girl  of  the  Golden  West"  which  the  Italian 
composer,  Puccini,  made  into  a  grand  opera. 
I  had  never  before  drilled  an  operatic  company 
and  I  set  about  the  task  with  a  good  many 
misgivings.  The  chorus  of  more  than  one 
hundred  people  was  made  up  of  Italians, 
French,  Germans,  Bohemians,  and  Poles.  They 
were  all  inclined  to  gesticulate  violently  and 
to  act  with  other  characteristically  foreign 
traits,  each  after  the  manner  of  his  own 
country. 

Among  the  group  of  Metropolitan  stars  was 
only  one  native  American.  Of  the  rest — I 
shall  refer  to  their  characters  by  the  names 
used  in  my  original  dramatic  version  of  the 
play — Enrico  Caruso,  who  sang  the  role  of 
Dick   Johnson,    the   Stranger,   is   an   ItaUan; 

1 101] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

Pasquale  Amato,  who  was  cast  as  Jack  Ranee, 
the  gambler  and  Sheriff,  is  also  an  Italian,  and 
Emmy  Destinn,  who  impersonated  the  title 
character,  the  Girl,  is  a  Bohemian. 

It  was  necessary  to  harmonize  this  incon- 
gruous collection  of  nationalities  and  make 
them  appear  as  Western  gold-miners — to  create 
through  them  an  atmosphere  of  the  wild  Cal- 
if omian  days  of  1849.  I  was  much  in  doubt 
whether  grand-opera  singers  who  command- 
ed princely  salaries  and  were  accustomed  to 
special  prerogatives  unknown  in  the  dramatic 
profession  would  be  willing  to  submit  to  my 
dictation. 

I  soon  discovered  my  doubts  had  been  with- 
out foundation.  The  task  of  making  the  pro- 
duction was  quite  as  great  as  I  expected, 
but  never  before  had  I  dealt  with  a  more 
tractable  and  willing  company  of  stage  people. 
I  was  always  put  to  the  disadvantage  of  not 
understanding  their  languages,  and  very  few 
of  them  could  speak  mine.  Yet  in  a  short  time 
I  was  able  to  communicate  my  wishes  through 
pantomime  and  they  seemed  to  comprehend 
me  at  once. 

I  do  not  think  that  ever  before  in  the  theatre 
the  value  of  pantomime  and  facial  expression 
was  so  conclusively  proved,  for  by  this  method 
I  found  I  could  appeal  to  the  intelligence  and 
imagination  of  this  polyglot  assemblage  more 
clearly  and  forcibly  than  by  words.     In  the 

[  102] 


Scene  from  Metropolitan  Opera-House  Production  of  "The 

Girl  of  the  Golden  West"  Which  Mr.  Belasco  Directed  When 

Puccini  Wrote  the  Operatic  Score  for  His  Play 

Enrico  Caruso  as  Ramirez,  the  road-agent,  in  the  center  of  the  picture. 
At  right  of  Caruso  are  Emmy  Destinn  as  The  Girl  and  Pasquale  Amato 
as  Jack  Ranee,  the  gambler-sheriff 


DEVELOPING  THE  BEST  IN  THE  ACTOR 

end  I  accomplished  all  I  had  undertaken. 
Both  the  critics  and  public  agreed  that  never 
before  had  Metropolitan  singers  been  so  rest- 
ful, so  thoroughly  in  the  spirit  of  the  characters 
they  represented,  and  so  alive  to  the  purely 
dramatic  demands  of  a  grand-opera  production. 

At  the  first  rehearsal  of  the  chorus  I  dis- 
covered it  would  be  necessary  to  change  my 
stage  -  directing  methods.  Men  and  women 
by  the  scores  and  fifties  would  troop  out  on 
the  stage,  range  themselves  in  rows,  and  become 
merely  a  backgrotmd  for  the  principals.  Then, 
for  no  clear  purpose,  they  would  all  begin  to 
shrug  their  shoulders,  grimace,  and  gesticulate 
with  their  hands.  I  resolved  to  undo  all  this 
at  once.  I  located  the  ones  who  shrugged  too 
much  and  either  backed  them  up  against 
trees  and  rocks  or  invented  bits  of  "business" 
by  which  they  were  held  by  the  others.  When 
a  chorus-singer  became  incorrigible  in  the  use 
of  his  arms  I  made  him  go  through  entire  scenes 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Little  by  little  I 
tamed  this  wriggling  crowd  until  they  them- 
selves began  to  understand  the  value  of  repose. 

To  form  some  idea  how  the  stars  intended 
to  interpret  their  roles,  I  allowed  them  to  go 
through  the  first  rehearsal  almost  undirected. 
I  found  that,  according  to  the  convention  of 
grand  opera,  they  would  step  to  the  front  of  the 
stage  and  sing  the  music  allotted  to  them  with 
very   little   effort   to   impersonate   character, 

[103] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

always  using  the  scenery  merely  as  a  back- 
ground. I  wondered  what  the  revolt  would 
be  when  I  let  them  know  I  intended  to  do 
away  with  all  such  formalities  and  introduce 
the  absolute  "business"  of  the  play,  even  if 
it  were  necessary  for  them  to  sing  with  their 
backs  turned  to  the  audience. 

I  was  relieved  when  all  of  them  promised  to 
attempt  the  innovation,  though  they  seemed 
dubious  as  to  how  my  plans  would  work  out. 
So  I  put  Emmy  Destinn  behind  the  bar  of  the 
Polka  Saloon  and  directed  her  to  sing  while  she 
was  serving  drinks  to  the  miners.  It  was  hard 
for  her  to  adapt  herself  to  this  byplay,  which 
took  place  far  back  on  the  stage,  for  she  had  to 
readjust  her  voice  to  the  new  distances,  but 
she  soon  succeeded. 

Meanwhile  I  was  wondering  how  Caruso 
would  comply  with  my  orders.  In  the  first 
scene  he  had  to  stride  into  the  Polka  Saloon, 
fling  his  saddle  on  the  table,  and  call  for  drinks, 
and  with  his  back  to  the  audience  sing  his  open- 
ing song.  He  was  entirely  willing  to  adopt 
this  method  of  making  his  entrance,  although 
he  must  have  realized  it  would  prevent  him 
from  acknowledging  the  applause  which  inva- 
riably greets  him.  Later,  when,  wounded,  after 
leaving  the  cabin  of  the  Girl,  he  staggers 
back  inside  and  climbs  the  steep  ladder  to  the 
cabin  loft,  meanwhile  singing  all  the  time, 
Caruso  seemed  a  little  reluctant. 

[  104] 


DEVELOPING  THE   BEST  IN  THE  ACTOR 

"It  is  difficult,  for  I  must  sing,"  he  said, 
shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"But  even  if  Puccini  has  given  you  a  song 
at  just  this  point,  you  must  suit  the  words  to 
the  action  and  the  action  to  the  words,"  I 
explained. 

"Let  me  see  you  do  it,"  he  replied. 

So  I  pretended  I  was  Dick  Johnson,  staggered 
in  with  my  wound,  listened  to  the  approach 
of  the  Sheriff's  posse,  and  then  climbed  up  the 
ladder,  singing  in  a  voice  that  must  have  made 
the  very  walls  of  the  Metropolitan  groan  with 
agony. 

Caruso  saw  the  value  of  the  realism  in  a 
flash,  A  dozen  or  more  times  at  each  rehearsal 
after  that,  in  response  to  my  directions,  he 
would  go  through  the  scene  and  end  by  climb- 
ing up  the  ladder,  all  the  time  pouring  forth 
tenor  notes  which  were  worth  bagsful  of  gold. 
He  was  full  of  enthusiasm  and  was  not  content 
until  he  could  play  the  scene  as  well  as  could 
reasonably  have  been  expected  of  any  accom- 
plished actor  on  the  dramatic  stage.  The 
prodigious  amount  of  wasted  song  he  poiu-ed 
into  the  dark  recesses  of  the  big,  empty  Metro- 
poHtan,  as  he  good-naturedly  toiled  up  and 
down  the  almost  perpendicular  ladder  during 
these  long  rehearsals,  would  have  sent  his  wor- 
shiping public  into  transports  of  delight. 

I  had  more  misgivings  over  the  melodramatic 
scene  in  which  the  Girl,  when  she  is  insulted 

[105] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

by  the  Sheriff,  seizes  a  whisky -bottle  to  defend 
herself.  Puccini,  probably  without  consider- 
ing the  dramatic  necessities  of  the  situation, 
had  given  Emmy  Destinn  a  very  difficult  aria 
to  accompany  it.  I  wondered  what  would 
happen  when  I  had  to  tell  her  that,  in  order 
to  carry  out  my  conception  of  the  realism  of 
the  scene,  she  would  have  to  sing  and  struggle 
at  the  same  time.  I  knew  it  was  contrary 
to  all  the  traditions  of  the  grand-opera  stage. 
I  also  was  not  unaware  of  the  temperamental 
idiosyncrasies  of  grand-opera  stars  when  they 
are  asked  to  change  their  established  methods. 
So  I  was  the  more  surprised  and  delighted 
to  find  her  keen  to  adopt  every  suggestion  I 
made. 

In  the  rehearsals  I  would  take  the  part  of 
the  Sheriff  and  she,  as  the  Girl,  would  beat 
and  scratch  me  until  my  face  and  body  bore 
the  marks  of  her  realism.  After  three  or  four 
trials  she  acted  it  so  vividly  that  even  the  few 
people  who  were  watching  the  rehearsals 
would  break  into  applause. 

When  I  originally  produced  "The  Girl  of 
the  Golden  West"  in  my  own  New  York 
theatre  I  found  the  gambling  scene,  in  which 
the  Girl  takes  a  playing-card  from  her  stocking, 
to  be  the  most  difficult  I  had  ever  rehearsed 
with  a  dramatic  company.  To  keep  the  audi- 
ence in  the  right  state  of  suspense  needed 
the   most   skilled   acting   by    Blanche   Bates, 

f  io6l 


DEVELOPING  THE  BEST  IN  THE  ACTOR 

Robert  Hilliard,  and  Frank  Keenan,  who  then 
impersonated  the  r61es.  It  can  be  understood 
how  very  much  harder  the  scene  became  with 
Destinn,  Caruso,  and  Amato  in  the  characters. 
It  must  have  been  exceedingly  trying  to  them 
to  change  abruptly  the  operatic  technique 
which  had  become  almost  second  nature  to 
them.  But  they  seemed  actually  to  enjoy 
making  the  experiment.  Over  and  over  again 
they  would  go  through  the  episode  imtil  they 
completely  conquered  it.  These  geniuses  re- 
ceived a  fortune  every  time  they  appeared  in 
public,  but  they  gave  me  many-fold  at  my 
bidding.  All  the  while  Toscanini  was  scolding 
them  from  the  conductor's  stand  and  making 
them  repeat  the  music.  That  sort  of  inter- 
ruption was  also  new  to  me,  but,  somehow, 
we  always  found  ourselves  in  perfect  sympathy, 
he  directing  the  music  and  I  creating  the 
atmosphere  and  evolving  the  drama. 

To  have  directed  the  grand-opera  version 
of  my  play  with  these  famous  singers  in  the 
cast  was  one  of  the  most  interesting,  as  well 
as  one  of  the  most  instructive,  experiences  in 
my  career.  I  came  to  realize  better  than  ever 
before  how  necessary  are  heart,  soul,  intelli- 
gence, and  imagination  to  the  lyric  artist. 
Only  the  greatest  singers  of  the  past  and 
present  have  possessed  these  four  supreme 
qualities.  Every  singer,  however  great  his 
lyric  gift,  should  be  taught — indeed,  should  be 

[107] 


THE  THEATRE   THROUGH    ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

made — to  act.  Even  Caruso's  God-given  voice 
casts  a  more  potent  spell  over  his  audiences 
in  the  ratio  that  he  improves  as  an  actor. 
The  fact  that  so  many  inferior  singers  succeed 
when  so  many  better  singers  fail  is  not  strange. 
It  is  because  they  have  greater  imaginations 
and  more  understanding  hearts.  The  secret  of 
the  marvelous  influence  of  Mary  Garden, 
Emma  Calve,  Geraldine  Farrar,  and  Maurice 
Renaud  over  their  hearers  is  that  these  singers 
know  how  to  appeal  to  the  imaginations  of 
their  public  through  their  own  imaginations. 
It  is  no  less  true  of  the  concert  stage.  John 
McCormack,  standing  alone  on  a  platform, 
is  equally  able  to  stir  the  imagination  of  his 
hearers.  If  nature  had  denied  any  of  these 
geniuses  a  singing  voice,  all  would  still  have 
become  great  actors  or  actresses. 

I  do  not  know  how  the  dramatic  realism 
which  we  put  into  "The  Girl  of  the  Golden 
West"  was  preserved  when  the  opera  settled 
back  into  the  regular  repertoire,  but  to  me 
its  early  performances  were  closer  to  life  and 
nature  than  any  other  grand  opera  I  have  ever 
witnessed.  I  am  glad  to  have  directed  the 
dramatic  side  of  the  production  at  the  Metro- 
politan, for  it  taught  me  that  the  deities 
of  the  world  of  song  are  not  the  eccentric 
creatures  they  are  so  often  represented  to  be, 
but  sensible,  obliging,  and  companionable  men 
and  women. 

[io8l 


DEVELOPING  THE   BEST  IN  THE   ACTOR 

It  was  the  wealth  of  imagination  I  detected 
in  Frances  Starr's  acting  the  first  time  I  saw 
her  that  convinced  me  at  once  of  the  possi- 
bihties  in  store  for  her,  if  she  were  properly 
directed.     When  I  made  up  my  mind  to  invite 
her  into  my  company,  I  felt  sure  I  could  place 
her  among  the  stars  if  only  she  would  prove 
strong   enough,    physically,    for   the   struggle. 
I  understood  much  better  than  she  what  effort 
it  would  cost,  what  trying  experiences  were 
ahead  of  her.     She  was  a  frail  girl,  with  a 
highly   stnmg,   nervous   temperament,   and   I 
decided  that  what  she  needed  most  at   the 
outset  was  to  be  built  up  in  health.     As  a 
result  of  my  first  interview  with  her  after  her 
contract  had  been  signed,  I  instructed  her  to 
consult  a  physician  and  engage  a  trained  nurse. 
When  I  told  her  I  must  insist  upon  prescribing 
her  diet  and  regulating  her  physical  exercise, 
she  was  inclined  at  first  to  resent  interference 
in  her  personal  affairs.     Quite  naturally,  she 
had   supposed   that   my  only  requirement   of 
her  would  be  to  act.     But  when  I  explained 
the  long  rehearsals  that  are  preliminary  to  my 
productions   and   showed  her  the  need   of  a 
sound    physical    foundation    for    the    nervous 
energy  I  would  require  her  to  exert,  she  began 
to  appreciate  better  the  wisdom  of  my  sug- 
gestions.    For  many  weeks  all  I  asked  her  to 
do  was  to  eat  nutritious  food,  drink  milk,  take 
daily  exercise  in  the  open  air,  and  go  to  bed 

[  109] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

early.  This  was  actually  the  beginning  of  the 
making  of  Miss  Starr  into  the  splendid  actress 
she  has  since  become. 

When,  after  a  time  in  David  Warfield's  com- 
pany, she  appeared  in  the  romantic  character 
of  the  Spanish  girl  in  "The  Rose  of  the 
Rancho,"  she  so  completely  fulfilled  all  my 
expectations  that  I  was  certain  she  would  give 
a  brilliant  account  of  herself  in  r61es  demanding 
intense  emotionalism,  if  only  I  could  contrive 
somehow  to  stir  her  imagination  to  an  even 
higher  pitch. 

The  opportunity  came  when  Eugene  Walter 
wrote  "The  Easiest  Way"  for  me.  In  it  he 
had  drawn,  in  the  character  of  Laura  Murdock, 
one  of  those  unfortunate  women  who  wish  to 
live  in  luxury  on  nothing  a  week — a,  pitifully 
weak,  unmoral,  constitutionally  mendacious 
creature  who  drifts  to  perdition  along  the  path 
of  least  resistance.  Mr.  Walter  had  created 
this  vivid  and  truthful,  though  thoroughly  un- 
sympathetic, character  with  a  view  to  having 
Charlotte  Walker  impersonate  it,  and  he  was 
quite  insistent  that  the  part  be  given  to  her. 
But  as  I  studied  it,  the  peculiar  quaHties  which 
I  felt  sure  Frances  Starr  could  impart  to  it  were 
always  before  my  eyes  and  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  intrust  it  to  her. 

I  was  not  mistaken.  It  was  "The  Easiest 
Way"  and  its  character  of  Laura  Murdock 
which  proved  to  be  the  making  of  Miss  Starr 

[no] 


Frances  Starr  in  the  Final  Act  of  "  Alarie-Odile" 
by  Edward  Knoblock 


DEVELOPING  THE   BEST  IN  THE  ACTOR 

into  a  really  fine  actress.  But  it  made  neces- 
sary at  least  one  experience  which  not  only 
she  and  I,  but  the  rest  of  the  company,  are 
not  likely  to  forget.  If  the  means  by  which  I 
cultivated  emotionalism  in  Mrs.  Carter  could 
be  misconstrued  as  a  resort  to  physical  vio- 
lence, the  course  I  was  forced  to  take  with 
Miss  Starr  might  much  more  correctly  be 
called  mental  torment. 

She  had  met  all  my  requirements  up  to  the 
climax  of  the  play.  At  this  point  came  the 
situation,  at  once  grisly,  abject,  and  pitiful, 
in  which  the  weakling,  a  victim  of  her  own 
mendacity,  and  abandoned  by  the  man  who 
trusted  her,  seizes  a  pistol  with  the  intention 
of  killing  herself,  but  lacks  the  courage  and, 
with  a  shriek  of  terror,  throws  the  weapon 
down.  I  had  foreseen  that  this  episode  must 
be  worked  up  to  the  highest  possible  pitch  of 
frenzied  hysteria. 

It  proved  too  great  an  effort  for  Miss  Starr, 
who,  though  we  rehearsed  it  scores  of  times, 
could  never  muster  the  strength  for  it.  It 
was  not  a  moment  when  facial  pantomime  or 
"frozen  emotion"  would  produce  the  right 
thrill.  What  I  wanted  was  a  scream  which 
would  denote  a  soul  in  torment,  the  abject 
terror  of  a  little  weakling  whose  life  had  been 
wasted  in  careless  piu-suit  of  gay  things  and 
who  suddenly  found  herself  brought  face  to 
face  with  death.     Such  a  moment  Mrs.  Carter 

8  [hi] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE  DOOR 

had  once  wonderfully  expressed  when,  as 
Madame  Du  Barry,  she  listened  to  her  jailer 
read  the  warrant  for  her  execution. 

I  was  at  a  loss  for  a  long  tinae  how  to  make 
Miss  Starr  respond  to  the  reqmrements  of  the 
scene.  Then  I  saw  it  would  be  necessary  to 
be  harsh,  to  torment  the  little  girl,  and,  by 
humiliating  her  before  the  company,  to  drive 
her  to  the  point  of  hysterics.  I  was  sure,  if 
only  once  I  could  force  her  up  to  the  pitch  of 
frenzy  which  the  scene  demanded,  that  she 
would  be  able  to  master  it  and  repeat  it.  We 
went  over  it  again  and  again  while  the  rest  of 
the  company  looked  on  in  silent  anger.  Miss 
Starr  was  trembling  and  as  white  as  a  ghost 
as,  little  by  little,  I  drove  her  to  desperation. 
At  each  attempt  she  still  fell  short.  Then  I 
remembered  she  often  had  told  me  how  she 
idolized  Sarah  Bernhardt,  so  I  resolved  to 
taunt  her. 

"And  you  want  to  be  as  great  as  Bernhardt !" 
I  sneered.     "It  makes  me  laugh!" 

In  a  flash  Miss  Starr  gave  a  terrific  scream 
and  dropped  to  the  floor  of  the  stage  in  a  dead 
faint.  As  those  nearest  to  her  lifted  her  up, 
I  clapped  my  hands  and  said: 

"That's  what  I  want!  That's  exactly  what 
I've  been  working  for  these  last  three  hours!" 

Then  I  dismissed  the  rehearsal.  The  com- 
pany walked  out  of  the  theatre  without  even 
bidding  me  good  night.     Every  member  was 

[112] 


DEVELOPING  THE  BEST  IN  THE  ACTOR 

fairly  exploding  with  resentment.  Miss  Starr's 
sister,  who  happened  to  be  present,  took  charge 
of  her  and  sent  her  home  in  a  cab.  I  was  glad 
when  they  had  gone.  I  wanted  to  be  alone, 
for  I  had  accomplished  a  successful  but  most 
distasteful  afternoon's  work. 

About  two  hours  afterward  the  sister  called 
me  on  the  telephone,  saying  Miss  Starr  was 
more  composed  and  wanted  to  see  me.  I  lost 
no  time  in  going  to  her  apartment.  The  first 
words  she  said  were: 

"I  think  I  made  an  awful  fool  of  myself  at 
the  rehearsal.  But  I  just  couldn't  do  what 
you  wanted." 

She  was  still  very  much  frightened  and  in 
doubt. 

"On  the  contrary,  you  did  exactly  what  I 
wanted  you  to  do,"  I  replied.  "I  knew  it  was 
in  you,  and  I  was  sure  you  could  do  it." 

Then  I  told  her  that  when  we  rehearsed  the 
scene  again  I  would  expect  the  same  scream 
she  had  given  that  afternoon. 

"I  don't  think  I  can  ever  do  it  again  that 
way,"  she  replied. 

"All  right,"  said  I,  "if  you  don't,  then  you 
will  have  to  go  through  the  whole  thing  again." 

"No!   No!"  she  cried.     "I  just  couldn't!" 

"Then  scream,"  I  said. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Starr,  "I'll  try." 

When  the  next  rehearsal  was  called  I  still 
had  doubts  as  to  what  the  result  might  be. 

[113] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

But  Miss  Starr  rose  to  the  climax  of  the  scene 
with  perfect  ease. 

Two  months  later,  when  "The  Easiest  Way" 
was  produced  in  my  New  York  theatre,  I 
watched  the  effect  of  Laura  Murdock's  frenzied 
scream  upon  the  audience.  The  tense  sus- 
pense, followed  by  the  burst  of  applause, 
eased  the  pricking  of  my  conscience  for  having 
tormented  Miss  Starr  to  the  point  of  hysterics, 
for  it  became  really  the  starting-point  of  her 
march  to  great  success. 


Ill 

A  stage-manager  cannot  dispassionately 
explain  to  his  people,  especially  to  the  players 
of  limited  experience,  how  he  wants  them  to 
act,  and  expect  them  to  throw  their  whole  soul 
and  being  into  it.  He  must  first,  himself, 
definitely  imagine  every  scene  in  which  they 
appear,  and  then  lead  them  up  to  it  by  working 
upon  their  intelligence,  imagination,  and  feeling. 

I  have  reached  this  general  conclusion  after 
much  experience  in  the  development  of  actors. 
But  it  is  also  true  that  no  two  can  be  taught 
alike,  just  as  it  is  impossible  to  produce  any 
two  plays  by  following  the  same  set  rules. 
There  may  arise  instances  in  which  the  most 
vivid  and  impressive  effects  of  character  can 
best  be  secured  by  adopting  a  negative  method 
of  projecting  it.     Such  examples  are  few,  but 

[ii4l 


DEVELOPING  THE  BEST  IN  THE  ACTOR 

one,  at  least,  is  afforded  by  my  production  of 
"The  Return  of  Peter  Grimm." 

My  purpose  in  this  play  was  to  show,  in  the 
person  of  a  living  actor,  the  survival  of  the 
influence  of  a  powerful  personality  after  death. 
In  other  words,  it  was  to  become  the  difficult 
task  of  David  Warfield,  for  whom  the  char- 
acter was  written,  to  impersonate  not  an 
animate  being,  but  a  ghost,  or  shade.  I  never 
had  any  doubt  of  Mr.  Warfield's  ability  to 
perform  his  share  in  carrying  out  my  con- 
ception of  the  character.  An  actor  of  his  intel- 
ligence and  technical  resources  could  scarcely 
fail.  The  difficulty  of  my  problem  lay  in  what 
would  be  the  attitude  of  the  surrounding 
characters  toward  a  commanding  personage 
who  was  never  to  be  seen  or  heard,  but  whose 
presence  was  always  felt.  I  foresaw  that,  in 
impersonating  Peter  Grimm,  no  matter  how 
convincing  Mr.  Warfield's  acting  might  be,  the 
conviction  which  the  character  must  ulti- 
mately carry  to  the  audience  would  depend 
upon  the  acting  of  those  around  it. 

In  the  writing  of  the  play  I  had  trouble 
from  the  very  start.  To  make  old  Peter's 
character  clearly  understood,  it  was  necessary 
that  he  be  represented  in  life  through  at  least 
one  act.  The  dramatic  conflict  of  the  story, 
however,  had  to  come  in  the  two  succeeding 
acts,  when  he  must  be  kept  on  the  stage  con- 
stantly in  spirit  form.     It  would  have  been 

[115] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

comparatively  easy,  of  course,  to  sustain  such 
an  illusion  for  only  five  or  ten  minutes.  At  a 
time  when  the  public  was  less  sophisticated  in 
matters  of  the  theatre  than  it  is  to-day  it 
might  have  been  possible  to  heighten  an  illu- 
sion of  ghostliness  by  the  aid  of  suggestive 
Hghts.  Here,  though,  was  a  case  in  which 
an  audience  was  given  two  hours  in  which  to 
analyze  the  character.  If,  even  for  a  moment, 
it  failed  to  suggest  death — if,  for  so  much  as  a 
single  second,  it  appealed  to  a  sense  of  the 
ridiculous — the  fate  of  the  whole  play  was 
sealed. 

I  decided  that  the  most  convincing  effects 
could  be  secured  by  employing  the  simplest 
means.  First  of  all  I  had  to  create  around 
the  living  Peter  an  atmosphere  of  memories. 
The  house  in  which  I  revealed  him  was  built 
by  his  ancestors  of  a  century  before — old- 
fashioned,  quaint,  and  mellow,  and  yet  with 
the  few  modern  improvements  which  naturally 
would  be  made  in  such  a  place.  The  furniture, 
gathered  by  the  founders  of  his  family,  had 
to  be  old  and  worn;  the  ancient  clock  that 
almost  spoke  as  it  ticked,  the  great  fireplace, 
with  armchair  and  stool  before  it — trifling 
objects,  to  be  sure,  but  all  of  a  kind  that  might 
be  hallowed  by  recollections  of  the  departed 
one.  Thus  I  gradually  evolved  the  environ- 
ment in  which  it  seemed  to  me  the  story  could 
best  be  told. 

[ii6] 


DEVELOPING  THE  BEST  IN  THE  ACTOR 

It  was  then  necessary  to  choose  a  nationality 
for  Peter  which  harmonized  with  the  mood  of 
the  play.  I  recalled  the  characters  out  of 
Grimm's  Fairy  Tales,  "The  Flying  Dutchman," 
"Rip  Van  Winkle,"  and  other  beautiful,  fanci- 
ful figures  of  fiction,  and  decided  he  would  be 
most  appealing  if  I  represented  him  as  Dutch. 
To  give  him  a  profession  in  life  I  considered 
many  things.  I  wanted  him  to  symbolize 
one  who  had  loved  life  and  had  lived  in  the 
midst  of  growing  things,  so  I  made  him  a 
gardener  who  had  come  from  a  family  of 
gardeners. 

All  these  traits  in  Peter  Grimm's  nature  I 
emphasized  in  the  opening  act,  in  which  he 
was  represented  in  the  flesh.  Then  he  sat 
down  in  his  old  armchair  before  the  fire,  and 
when  the  family  came  to  arouse  him  to  go  to 
bed,  they  found  him  dead. 

Now  came  the  hard  task  of  reincarnating 
Peter  in  spirit  form,  when  he  returns  to  repair 
the  mistake  he  made  in  life,  upon  which 
depended  the  happiness  of  those  he  had  left 
behind.  For  weeks  I  pondered  how  it  could 
be  best  contrived,  and  then  I  decided  that  he 
must  walk  through  the  same  door,  hang  his 
hat  on  the  same  peg,  and  move  across  the 
room  to  the  same  table — just  as  the  audience 
had  seen  him  in  the  preceding  act. 

To  rehearse  the  play  up  to  this  point  and 
make  the  company  indicate  clearly  the  essen- 

[117] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE  DOOR 

tial  preliminary  details  of  the  story  was  not 
especially  difficult.  But  when  it  came  time 
to  have  a  spirit  form  mingle  with  ten  animate 
beings  who  always  felt  its  influence,  yet 
remained  unaware  of  its  actual  presence,  the 
management  of  the  scenes  became  most  per- 
plexing. 

The  requirements  placed  upon  Mr.  Warfield 
were  very  severe.  He  had  to  imagine  himself 
returned  from  the  unknown  world  with  an 
unftilfilled  mission  to  perform.  He  could  not 
give  vent  to  any  emotion  whatever;  he  must 
typify  death.  When  he  stood  for  thirty-eight 
minutes  without  speaking  a  word  as  the  daily 
life  of  the  household  went  on  around  him, 
yet  had  to  command  the  unwavering  attention 
of  the  audience,  he  gave  what  I  believe  to  be 
the  greatest  exhibition  of  acting  I  ever  wit- 
nessed. During  all  this  time  he  remained 
in  perfect  repose  and  with  eyes  fixed.  When 
he  left  the  scene  Mr.  Warfield  would  be  in  a 
state  of  utter  exhaustion,  and  would  actually 
have  to  sit  ten  minutes  in  order  to  bring  him- 
self, so  to  speak,  back  to  life. 

Sensative  as  was  Mr.  Warfield 's  acting,  this 
illusion  of  death  could  not  be  reached  or,  once 
reached,  be  maintained  by  him  alone.  The 
ultimate  effect  of  the  character  depended  upon 
the  relationship  of  the  other  characters  to  it. 
To  insure  this  illusion  I  had  to  develop  my 
actors  along  peculiar  lines.     They  had  to  be 

fiiSl 


DEVELOPING  THE   BEST  IN  THE  ACTOR 

taught  to  look  at  Mr.  Warfield,  yet  not  see 
him.  They  had  to  Hsten  to  his  speeches,  but 
indicate  that  they  thought  his  voice  was  in 
their  imaginations.  At  one  point  a  Httle  child 
had  to  be  taught  to  run  to  him,  throw  his  arms 
around  him,  and  yet  not  know  that  he  was  there. 
Even  to  the  least  important  character  in  the 
play,  the  actors  had  to  be  taught  to  indicate 
a  negation  of  all  the  physical  senses. 

To  accomplish  all  this  required  the  most 
persistent  practice.  Every  detail  in  the  play 
was  so  perfectly  timed  that  the  movements 
of  my  actors  were  guided  by  the  beat  of  their 
pulse.  I  drilled  them  until  they  could  have 
circled  around  Mr.  Warfield  blindfolded,  and 
yet  not  touch  him.  Until  I  came  to  rehearse 
this  peculiar  play  I  never  had  half  realized 
what  miracles  can  be  performed  by  constant 
training,  when  a  group  of  actors  are  working 
in  perfect  unison  to  accomplish  a  single  pur- 
pose or  illusion. 

This  drilling  did  not  stop  with  the  people 
on  the  stage.  Even  the  scene-shifters  had  to 
imdergo  a  course  of  careful  instruction.  I 
required  them  to  wear  felt  slippers  and  had  the 
floors  covered  with  heavy  matting  so  that  no 
accidental  sound  would  disturb  the  spell  that 
had  been  created. 

Night  after  night,  as  long  as  the  play  re- 
mained before  the  public,  all  these  precautions 
were  observed  until  they  became  very  exhaust- 

[119] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

ing  to  every  one  concerned  in  the  performance. 
But  no  accident  of  any  kind  occurred  during 
the  long  run  of  the  play,  and  I  never  saw  a 
single  indication  from  the  audience  that  this 
dangerous  nightly  traffic  with  a  ghost  was 
other  than  seriously  accepted. 

There  could  be  no  better  demonstration  of 
the  value  of  pantomime  as  a  part  of  an  actor's 
equipment  than  David  Warfield's  performance 
of  Peter  Grimm.  In  all  my  experience  in  the 
theatre  I  can  recall  only  two  examples  which 
compare  with  it.  One  was  the  exalted  dignity 
of  silence  which  James  O'Neill  attained  when 
he  embodied  the  Saviour  in  my  production  of 
"The  Passion  Play"  in  San  Francisco,  long 
ago  in  the  'eighties.  The  other  occurred  dur- 
ing Sarah  Bernhardt 's  remarkable  performance 
of  Mary  Magdalene  in  "The  Good  Samaritan." 
For  forty-five  minutes  the  Magdalene  sat 
under  a  portico,  listening  to  the  voice  of  the 
Master  as  he  spoke  to  the  multitude.  During 
all  this  time  she  did  not  utter  a  word.  But 
the  story  of  her  redemption,  as  it  was  expressed 
in  her  face  and  by  her  gest tires,  was  more 
eloquently  and  beautifully  told  than  if  it  had 
been  written  in  the  poetry  of  Shakespeare. 

In  making  my  dramatic  productions  I  have 
nearly  always  found  my  resources  as  a  director 
put  to  a  much  harder  test  with  actors  of  long 
experience,  whose  manner  and  method  have 
become  fixed  in  certain  definite  lines  of  parts, 

[  120] 


DEVELOPING  THE   BEST  IN  THE  ACTOR 

than  with  those,  perhaps  of  much  more  limited 
technical  proficiency,  who  have  not  gone  be- 
yond the  pliable  state  when  they  are  still  sus- 
ceptible to  new  methods  of  expression.  The 
permanent  stock  companies  of  an  earlier  era 
of  our  stage  have  all  but  disappeared.  In 
spite  of  the  familiar  arguments  in  their  favor, 
the  old  system  would  no  longer  be  found 
advisable.  The  public  is  fickle  now,  even 
in  its  attitude  toward  its  favorites.  It  decrees 
constant  change  in  the  theatre.  So  dramatic 
companies  must  disband  at  the  end  of  the  life 
of  a  play.  And,  with  the  staging  of  each  suc- 
cessive play,  the  producer  is  confronted  by  the 
necessity  of  assembling  what  is  practically  a 
new  organization. 

This  prevailing  practice  in  the  theatre  is 
too  likely  to  result  in  robbing  the  work  of  the 
stage  director  of  its  individuality.  The  temp- 
tation becomes  strong  to  select  an  actor  for  a 
certain  r61e,  not  because  he  is  a  good  actor, 
but  because  he  suggests  a  certain  type.  With 
the  present  custom  of  producing  plays  in 
wholesale  numbers,  and  then  taking  com- 
mercial advantage  of  a  chance  success  by 
immediately  duplicating  it,  there  is  little  effort 
on  the  part  of  most  stage  directors  to  train 
their  actors  to  express  more  than  the  surface 
aspects  of  the  characters  in  which  they  appear. 

When  I  adapted  the  French  drama,  "The 
Lily,"  from  its  original  version  by  Pierre  Wolff 

ll2l] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

and  Gaston  Leroux,  for  production  at  my 
theatre,  I  had  to  find  an  actress  of  very  definite 
type  for  its  electrical  character  of  Odette,  and 
to  demand  that  she  play  the  part  in  exact 
accordance  with  my  own  conception  of  it. 
For  two  acts,  although  she  was  constantly 
on  the  stage,  it  was  necessary  that  she  com- 
pletely efface  herself.  Then,  in  the  third  act, 
came  an  emotional  outburst  of  no  more  than 
two  minutes'  duration  which,  if  it  were  prop- 
erly given,  must  raise  the  character  to  com- 
manding importance  in  the  drama.  Where  to 
find  an  actress  of  superlative  emotional  abil- 
ity whom  I  could  induce  to  abnegate  herself 
throughout  practically  the  whole  play  greatly 
perplexed  me. 

This  character  of  Odette  was  an  unlovely, 
middle-aged  spinster  sister  in  a  French  family, 
whose  heart  had  been  eaten  out  by  her  life- 
long servile  obedience  to  a  domineering,  selfish 
father,  and  whose  doglike  loyalty  and  affection 
for  her  younger  sister,  Christiane,  had  become 
her  complete  obsession. 

Christiane,  kept  by  her  tyrannical  father 
from  marrying  the  man  she  loves,  gives  herself 
to  him  in  desperation.  On  the  discovery  of 
her  guilt,  Odette's  resentment,  pent  up  for 
years,  suddenly  bursts  all  restraint  as  she  goes 
to  her  sister's  defense.  The  drab,  abject, 
bullied,  and  neglected  old  maid,  who  never 
before  had  dared  to  raise  her  voice  against  her 

[122  J 


DEVELOPING  THE   BEST   IN  THE  ACTOR 

father's  tyranny,  is  transformed  in  an  instant 
from  a  servile,  driven  sheep  into  a  savage  wolf 
as  she  pours  out  her  hatred  upon  him.  On 
the  ability  of  the  actress  I  might  select  to  rise 
to  the  demands  of  this  scene  depended  the  fate 
of  "The  Lily." 

As  I  considered  the  r61e  and  its  exceptional 
requirements  my  thoughts  turned  to  Nance 
O'Neil.  She  possessed  the  tall,  gaunt  figure, 
the  well-modulated  contralto  voice,  the  plain, 
spinster-like  appearance,  and  the  emotional 
tensity  which  I  had  imagined  in  the  character. 
Other  actresses  entered  my  mind  as  I  hesitated 
a  month,  but  always  I  reverted  to  Miss  O'Neil. 

Nevertheless,  I  saw  trouble  ahead.  Miss 
O' Neil's  dramatic  training  had  been  for  the 
heavy  roles  of  tragedy.  She  had  acquired  the 
broad  gesticulation  of  classic  character  and  the 
manner  of  elocution  which  fitted  into  the  read- 
ing of  blank  verse.  She  had  long  acted  suc- 
cessfully in  different  parts  of  the  world  and  had 
broken  away  from  all  restraints  of  stage- 
management.  It  was  plain  that,  in  developing 
Miss  O'Neil  for  the  role  of  Odette,  while  I 
might  have  to  teach  her  little,  she  herself  would 
have  to  unlearn  much.  I  was  in  the  difficult 
position  of  expecting  an  actress  of  great  ex- 
perience to  change  abruptly  all  her  established 
methods — to  turn  right-about-face  in  a  single 
night. 

I  sent  for  her  and,  together,  we  went  care- 
[  123  ] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

fully  over  the  play,  I  acting  the  part  of  Odette 
as  I  thought  it  ought  to  be  played.  I  made 
her  understand  that  until  the  single  scene 
which  was  to  become  her  great  opportunity 
arrived,  she  must  remain  in  complete  repose. 
Until  then  her  only  lines  would  be  spoken  in 
low  monosyllables.  I  told  her  that  her  appear- 
ance must  be  wholly  unattractive,  that  her 
face  must  be  colorless,  pinched,  and  inexpres- 
sive, to  typify  the  utter  tragedy  of  life. 

She  listened  in  silence  for  a  long  time.  Then 
she  said: 

"Repose  is  a  thing  I  don't  know.  I  haven't 
any  confidence  that  I  will  be  able  to  act  the 
part  as  you  wish.  But  it  appeals  to  me,  and 
if  you  have  confidence  in  me  I  shall  be  glad  to 
come  into  your  company,  not  as  a  star,  but  as 
one  of  the  players  in  what  I  believe  will  be  a 
great  cast.  I  will  do  everything  as  you  direct, 
and  try  to  forget  I  have  ever  acted  any  other 
kind  of  characters.  If  you  are  willing  to  take 
the  risk,  so  can  I." 

I  told  her  that  what  she  said  had  convinced 
me  she  could  make  out  of  the  drab  role  of 
Odette  the  most  powerful  character  in  the  play. 
Without  the  slightest  misgivings  on  my  part 
the  terms  of  oiu*  agreement  were  then  arranged. 

Some  of  my  staff  did  not  share  my  confidence 
in  the  experiment,  and  during  the  first  two  or 
three  rehearsals  it  seemed  at  times  that  they 
might  be  right.     Miss  O'Neil,  who  for  years 

[  124] 


DEVELOPING  THE   BEST  IN  THE  ACTOR 

had  been  the  most  prominent  figure  in  all  the 
plays  in  which  she  had  appeared,  found  it  hard 
to  keep  herself  in  the  background  of  the  action, 
and  it  was  irritating  to  her  to  speak  always 
in  two-word  sentences.  It  needed  very  diplo- 
matic handling  to  lead  her  along  my  way  and 
at  the  same  time  keep  her  convinced  of  the 
paramount  importance  of  her  small  role. 

But  she  had  none  of  the  false  pride  which 
is  so  common  among  actors  who  feel  that  they 
have  established  reputations  behind  them.  I 
have  known  many  who,  though  willing  to  listen 
to  instructions  in  private,  immediately  grew 
resentful  when  directed  or  corrected  in  the 
presence  of  the  rest  of  the  company.  Miss 
O'Neil  had  no  such  exaggerated  ideas  of  her 
importance.  Bits  of  the  play  which  must  have 
seemed  trivial  to  her  she  would  go  through 
twenty  times  in  succession  if  I  demanded  it. 
She  not  only  was  willing  to  listen  to  criticism, 
but  courted  it.  She  was  highly  strung,  like  an 
emotional  child,  and  sometimes  would  become 
completely  discouraged. 

But  at  last  came  a  rehearsal  in  which  she 
completely  dominated  the  stage.  The  magic 
of  her  eloquent  voice  in  her  denunciation  speech, 
the  animation  which  her  negative  character 
suddenly  took  on,  held  the  other  actors  spell- 
boimd. 

There  could  be  only  one  effect  of  such  a 
performance  as  hers  upon  an  audience.     On 

[125] 


THE   THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

the  opening  night  of  "The  Lily"  the  surprise 
at  first  was  general  that  so  prominent  an 
actress  should  have  been  wasted  on  so  trivial 
a  r61e.  Then,  in  sudden  contrast,  came  the 
brilliant  flash  of  histrionic  lightning.  Two 
minutes  siifficed  for  Odette's  speech.  When 
it  was  ended  the  ciutain  was  lifted  twenty- 
seven  times  before  the  applause  subsided,  and 
the  greatest  success  in  Nance  O' Neil's  career 
had  been  won. 

With  the  nm  of  "The  Lily"  my  artistic 
association  with  Miss  O'Nerl  came  to  an  end. 
But  the  circumstances  of  it  have  never  ceased 
to  afford  me  satisfaction,  and  I  trust  she  looks 
back  upon  them  with  the  same  degree  of 
pleasure.  To  me  she  typifies  what  receptive- 
ness,  tractability,  and  generosity  will  accom- 
plish for  the  player. 

The  true  artist  in  the  theatre  never  stands 
still.  The  horizon  aroimd  him  constantly 
changes.  The  conditions  in  which  he  finds 
himself  never  remain  the  same.  The  standard 
which  he  sets  for  himself  must  not  be  allowed 
to  decline.  He  approaches  closest  to  greatness 
who  learns  to  govern  his  art  to  meet  every 
requirement  of  the  character  he  is  called  upon 
to  perform. 


Chapter  IV 
THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  CHILD  ACTOR 


AMONG  the  callers  at  my  studio  one  after- 
'  noon  was  a  woman  who  came  in  a  state 
of  mingled  enthusiasm  and  anxiety.  That 
frame  of  mind  I  am  not  unaccustomed  to  among 
persons  with  ambitions  to  set  out  on  a  stage 
career  who  ask  my  advice,  or  among  the  more 
confident  candidates  who  come  to  seek  an  out- 
let for  their  real  or  fancied  talents  in  my  pro- 
ductions. 

I  was  certain  from  this  woman's  manner 
that  her  mission  must  be  either  one  or  the 
other,  so  I  was  not  a  little  surprised  when  she 
explained  that  she  wanted  to  consvilt  me  about 
her  child,  a  little  girl  ten  years  old.  There  was 
novelty  in  the  purpose  of  her  call  and  at  once 
I  became  interested. 

With  whatever  show  of  modesty  she  could 
assume  she  said  that  she  was  the  very  proud 
mother  of  a  real  prodigy.  Her  precocious 
child  had  developed  remarkable  ability  in 
reciting.     It    could    memorize    long    passages 

9  [127] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

from  plays  without  difficulty.  More  than  that, 
it  could  perform  the  characters  with  all  the 
fervor  of  a  grown-up  actor.  If  I  recall  cor- 
rectly, stretches  from.  "Romeo  and  Juliet" 
and  "As  You  Like  It"  were  in  the  youngster's 
repertoire,  not  to  mention  many  scenes  from 
published  modern  plays. 

Should  such  a  gift  be  permitted  to  remain 
imutilized?  Ought  not  a  place  on  the  stage 
be  found  at  once  for  this  ten-year-old  phe- 
nomenon? These  were  the  questions  I  was 
expected  to  answer. 

I  first  asked  the  woman  if  she  had  the  means 
of  supporting  and  the  facilities  for  training 
her  daughter  as  a  child  in  ordinary  circum- 
stances is  supported  and  trained,  and  she 
replied  very  positively  that  she  had.  I  then 
inquired  whether  its  gift  was  an  inherited  pro- 
clivity. She  said  she  did  not  think  so,  for  no 
one  in  her  family  had  ever  been  connected 
with  the  theatre.  In  answer  to  questions 
regarding  the  child's  physical  condition,  she 
said  it  had  always  been  in  the  best  of  health. 

I  promptly  advised  this  mother  to  put  aside 
all  thought  of  a  juvenile  theatrical  career  for 
her  little  girl.  I  urged  her  with  much  earnest- 
ness to  encourage  its  interest  in  dolls  and 
children's  games,  and  to  take  care  not  to  force 
its  education  because  of  its  precocity.  If,  I 
suggested,  its  talents  for  reciting  and  acting 
still  continued  when  it  had  reached  the  age 

[128] 


THE   PROBLEM  OF  THE  CHILD  ACTOR 

of  sixteen  or  seventeen — which  secretly  I  had 
reason  to  doubt — there  still  would  be  time 
enough  to  develop  them  for  use  in  the  theatre. 

The  woman  was  plainly  disappointed,  and 
she  left  my  studio  tmconvinced.  I  later  heard 
she  had  said  Mr.  Belasco  warned  her  that  the 
stage  was  not  a  fit  place  for  children  and 
strongly  advised  that  she  keep  her  little  girl 
away  from  it. 

Which,  I  hasten  to  make  clear,  is  not  at  all 
the  impression  I  intended  to  give  her.  I  was 
offering  advice  which  applied  only  in  an  indi- 
vidual case,  based  on  what  seemed  to  me  to 
be  the  relative  advantages  open  to  this  child 
in  its  home  and  on  the  stage.  She  had  com- 
pletely misunderstood  my  meaning  and,  of 
course,  to  the  disparagement  of  the  theatre. 

The  difficult  question  of  the  child  in  its 
relation  to  the  professional  stage,  which  was  so 
important  to  this  mother,  is  much  more  im- 
portant to  the  child,  but  in  a  different  way. 
We  who  are  in  and  of  the  theatre  know  that  it 
can  arrive  at  its  best  results  only  when  it 
meets  and  solves  wisely  the  artistic  and  eco- 
nomic problems  which  it  creates.  There  are 
also  social  problems  in  the  theatre  which  are 
raised  by  the  people  associated  with  it.  They 
may  safely  be  left  to  the  mature  members 
of  the  dramatic  profession  whom  they  directly 
affect.  But  there  always  remains  the  puzzling 
question  of  what  is  best  for  the  child  actor 

[  129] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

who  cannot  think  for  itself  and,  therefore,  must 
be  subject  to  conditions  which  it  cannot  change 
or  control. 

One  way  to  settle  tne  question — the  narrow 
and  arbitrary  way  that  is  first  likely  to  occur 
to  those  who  consider  it  from  a  single  point 
of  view — would  be  to  eliminate  children  entirely 
from  the  acting  profession.  That  would  be 
the  way  of  persons  who  know  nothing  of  the 
theatre  from  its  inside  or  of  the  actual  condi- 
tions which  surround  the  child  actor.  If  it 
were  the  right  way  it  would  have  been  accom- 
pHshed  long  ago,  for  the  child  who  works  in 
any  profession  or  trade  has  never  been  without 
aggressive  guardians  of  its  welfare.  On  the 
contrary,  a  child's  right  to  appear  on  the  stage, 
under  proper  conditions  and  restrictions,  has 
generally  been  conceded,  and  those  who  know 
most  about  its  work  and  the  influences  around 
it  agree  that,  relatively,  it  is  better  off  in  the 
theatre  than  under  the  conditions  and  influ- 
ences from  which  more  than  90  per  cent,  of 
young  stage  children  are  drawn.  I  am  making 
a  sharp  distinction,  of  course,  between  children 
who  appear  in  legitimate  plays  and  those 
engaged  in  such  hazardous  or  exhausting  work 
as  acrobatic  exhibitions  or  dancing. 

Although  it  must  be  a  secondary  argument 
— for  the  child  actor  must  always  be  entitled 
to  first  consideration  on  the  score  of  its  health, 
morals,   and   education — the   welfare   of   dra- 

[130] 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  CHILD  ACTOR 

matic  art  depends  to  a  very  considerable  degree 
upon  the  child  performer.  Children  are  neces- 
sary to  the  stage.  It  cannot  get  along  without 
them.  Many  of  the  greatest  masterpieces  of 
dramatic  literature  have  turned  directly  upon 
the  presence  and  effect  of  little  children  in 
their  scenes.  The  play  throughout  the  thea- 
tre's whole  history  that  has  been  most  pro- 
found and  universal  in  its  appeal  has  dealt 
simply  with  that  most  enduring  and  powerful 
of  all  instincts — mother-love. 

This  motive  of  drama  which  remains  supreme 
in  contemporary  works  of  the  stage  was  equally 
common  to  the  drama  of  the  ancient  Greeks. 
The  tragic  grief  of  the  Queen  Mother  in  the 
"Medea"  of  Euripides  could  be  developed  into 
blinding  passion  only  by  the  presence  in  the 
play  of  her  children,  whom  she  kills  to  save 
from  the  woman  for  whom  the  King  has 
betrayed  and  abandoned  her.  Shakespeare 
often  depended  upon  child  characters  to  give 
power  and  beauty  to  his  plays.  Among  many 
examples  are  the  roles  of  Prince  Arthur  in 
"King  John,"  the  little  Prince  of  Wales  in 
"Richard  III,"  and  the  fairies  and  sprites  in 
"A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream."  "Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin"  might  not  have  swayed  millions 
as  it  did,  save  for  the  pathetic  character  of 
Little  Eva. 

It  was  the  same  overwhelming  motive  of 
mother-love,  and  the  appearance  of  the  two 

[131I 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

children  in  its  scenes,  that  made  a  place  in 
theatrical  history  for  "East  Lynne."  In  my 
own  play,  "The  Return  of  Peter  Grimm,"  I 
was  obliged  to  introduce  the  character  of  the 
little  boy,  William,  in  order  to  have  my 
audiences  comprehend  fully  the  tender,  lovable 
nature  of  old  Peter,  Drama  that  truthfully 
reflects  life  requires  the  use  of  child  actors. 
Only  in  plays  that  view  life  flippantly  and 
cynically  are  they  ignored.  One  does  not  find 
child  characters  in  the  comedies  of  George 
Bernard  Shaw. 

Yet  it  is  not  safe  to  argue,  because  the  child 
actor  is  necessary  to  the  theatre,  that  the 
theatre  is  necessary  to  the  child.  It  surely 
is  not  necessary,  and  it  offers  no  benefit  to 
the  child  who  has  the  ordinary  advantages  of 
comfortable  home  surroundings  and  careful 
parental  discipline.  I  am  by  no  means  cer- 
tain, even  when  a  child  shows  great  precocity 
for  acting,  that  to  place  it  in  the  theatre  at  a 
tender  age  is  the  best  way  to  develop  its  char- 
acter or  cultivate  its  talents  for  future  use. 
My  own  way  would  be  to  supervise  with  great- 
est care  its  health  and  education  under  domes- 
tic influences,  and  then  give  it  a  later  start 
on  the  stage.  If  I  had  a  child  and  it  wanted 
to  go  into  the  theatre,  I  would  question  only 
my  ability  to  support  and  train  it  in  the  home. 

I  do  not  want  my  views  on  the  subject  to 
be  misunderstood.     They  do  not  imply  that  I 

[  132] 


THE   PROBLEM  OF  THE  CHH.D  ACTOR 

consider  the  theatre  an  improper  place  for  a 
very  large  percentage  of  the  hundreds  of  chil- 
dren who  at  all  times  are  in  it.  The  question 
depends  altogether  on  what  advantages  the 
child  would  have  received  if  it  had  remained 
entirely  among  domestic  surroundings. 

A  distinction  should  also  be  drawn  between 
children  who  come  of  parents  befonging  to 
the  acting  profession  and  those  who  are  brought 
into  the  theatre  from  other  classes  and  walks 
of  life.  In  the  case  of  the  first,  they  are  sub- 
ject to  the  same  influences  they  would  probably 
find  at  home.  They  are  also  under  the  care 
of  their  natural  guardians,  who,  presumably, 
have  decided  what  is  best  for  them. 

In  this  country  children  on  the  stage  who 
belong  to  theatrical  families  are  not  very 
nimierous — at  least,  there  are  not  enough  of 
them  to  influence  any  general  conclusions  on 
the  problem  of  the  stage  child.  In  this  respect 
our  native  branch  of  the  dramatic  profession 
is  radically  different  from  the  English,  where 
for  generations  acting  has  been  followed  as  a 
family  profession. 

Nevertheless,  there  are  a  few  conspicuous 
examples  in  our  own  theatre  of  actors'  children 
who  have  been  on  the  stage  almost  from  in- 
fancy and  have  remained  there  all  their  lives, 
some  to  win  distinction  in  their  mature  years. 
Consider  what  the  theatre  would  have  lost  if 
the  right  to  it  had  been  denied  Maude  Adams. 

[133] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

She  was  carried  on  at  the  age  of  seven  months 
by  her  mother  in  "The  Lost  Child"  and  had 
developed  genuine  talent  before  she  could  speak 
her  lines  without  a  lisp. 

Fritz  Williams,  also  of  stage  parents,  was 
only  six  months  old  when  he  was  before  the 
footlights  of  a  Boston  theatre  in  "Seeing 
Warren."  Wallace  Eddinger,  who  was  to 
become  a  famous  little  Cedric  in  "Little  Lord 
Fauntleroy,"  was  a  child  actor  at  seven  years, 
in  a  piece  called  "Among  the  Pines."  George 
M.  Cohan,  now  one  of  the  real  geniuses  of  otir 
theatre,  first  appeared  at  the  age  of  ten,  in 
"Peck's  Bad  Boy."  William  ColHer,  exceed- 
ingly clever  among  our  present  farcical  stars, 
began  when  he  was  only  one  year  older.  Hol- 
brook  Blinn  was  only  six  when  he  was  a  boy 
actor  in  "The  Streets  of  London,"  though  his 
actress  mother  wisely  took  him  out  of  the 
theatre  and  gave  him  a  college  education. 
Henry  B.  Warner  was  seven  years  old  when 
his  celebrated  father  permitted  him  to  play  a 
child  role,  also  in  "The  Streets  of  London." 
Fay  Templeton  at  three  was  a  Cupid  in  a 
spectacular  play,  and  a  year  later  was  Puck 
in  a  New  York  production  of  "A  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream."  Maude  Fealy  began  at  three, 
and  Phyllis  Rankin  at  ten — both  under  the 
guidance  of  their  parents.  But  the  talented 
children  of  the  Drews,  Barrymores,  and  Jef- 
fersons — the  most  noted  professional  families 

[134] 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  CHILD  ACTOR 

we  have  in  the  American  theatre — like  the 
Irvings  in  England,  were  kept  off  the  stage 
until  their  education  had  been  acquired. 

These  child  actors  I  have  named  gravitated 
naturally  to  the  theatre  because  their  parents 
were  members  of  its  profession.  Among  our 
grown  actors  of  repute  there  are  some  who  also 
began  as  children,  but  without  inherited  apti- 
tude for  the  art.  Notable  among  them  is 
Lotta  Crabtree,  now  retired,  who  began  acting 
at  eleven  in  California  during  the  gold  days. 
Mrs.  Fiske  has  been  in  the  theatre  practically 
all  her  life.  At  three  she  was  the  infant  Duke 
of  York  in  ''Richard  III";  at  ten  she  was 
appearing  with  J.  K.  Emmett,  at  Wallack's 
in  New  York,  as  Little  Fritz  in  "Fritz,  Our 
German  Cousin."  She  performed  an  astonish- 
ing number  of  children's  r61es,  and  was  a  full- 
fledged  star  in  "Fogg's  Ferry"  at  seventeen. 
Louis  Mann,  our  popular  dialect  star,  also 
saw  the  footlights  at  three.  Julia  Marlowe 
began  at  twelve,  but  was  taken  off  the  stage  to 
undergo  arduous  private  training  before  she 
emerged  as  a  star  of  poetic  drama  at  seventeen. 

Clara  Morris,  one  of  the  greatest  emotional 
stars  our  stage  has  produced,  appeared  at 
thirteen,  in  "The  Seven  Sisters,"  in  Cleveland, 
though  it  was  eleven  years  later  that  she 
found  her  ynetier  as  Anne  Sylvester  in  "Men 
and  Women"  under  Augustin  Daly  at  the  old 
Fifth  Avenue  Theatre.     Annie  Russell  acted 

[135I 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

at  eight.  She  was  one  of  the  innumerable 
children  who  have  appeared  in  "Miss  Multon," 
which  is  a  version  of  "East  Lynne."  Elsie 
Janis,  exceedingly  talented  as  an  entertainer 
along  vaudeville  lines,  began  in  my  own  play, 
"The  Charity  Ball,"  at  the  tender  age  of  eight. 
Edna  May  was  lisping  to  audiences  at  five, 
but  in  amateur  theatricals.  Effie  Shannon 
was  a  child  actress  in  the  companies  controlled 
by  the  Boston  manager,  John  Stetson.  Henry 
E.  Dixey,  at  ten,  was  the  boy,  Peanuts,  in 
Augustin  Daly's  play,  "Under  the  Gaslights," 
at  the  old  Howard  Athenasum  Theatre  during 
its  first  Boston  run.  Ada  Rehan,  for  whom 
future  fame  was  waiting,  first  played  at  four- 
teen in  "Across  the  Continent,"  one  of  the 
very  popular  melodramas  of  its  day.  Julia 
Arthur,  also  at  fourteen,  was  another  of  the 
many  children  who  made  a  beginning  as  the 
httle  Prince  of  Wales  in  "Richard  III." 

I  have  not  attempted  to  make  a  complete 
list  of  the  actors  and  actresses,  familiar  to  our 
playgoing  public  now,  who  began  their  stage 
work  in  infancy  or  very  early  childhood.  A 
careful  search  through  the  native  theatre 
would  doubtless  discover  a  good  many  more 
than  I  have  named.  Yet  even  in  their  aggre- 
gate they  would  form  a  very  small  fraction 
of  the  whole  present  membership  of  our  stage 
profession.  They  are  the  fortunate  ones — 
the  few  exceptions  among  almost  innumerable 

[136] 


THE   PROBLEM  OF  THE  CHILD  ACTOR 

child  actors  who  have  attracted  no  special 
attention,  earned  no  distinction,  and  eventu- 
ally dropped  out  of  sight,  to  be  heard  of  no 
more. 

My  opinion  that  the  theatre  is  not  an 
advisable  place  for  the  children  of  parents 
who  are  capable  of  bringing  them  up  under 
the  advantages  that  are  normally  found  in 
the  domestic  circle  should  not  be  accepted  as 
applying  to  the  very  great  majority  of  the  child 
actors  who  everywhere  amuse  us  and  appeal 
to  our  hearts.  These  children  almost  invari- 
ably come  from  a  very  humble  class.  Except 
in  the  occasional  instances  when  their  parents 
belong  to  the  theatrical  profession,  we  never 
get  the  children  of  affluence  or  even  of  the 
modestly  well-to-do.  They  are  of  the  lowliest 
origin — little  dependents  of  a  crippled  father 
or  a  widowed  mother  who  has  had  to  turn 
to  scrubbing  as  a  precarious  support  for  her 
family.  Perhaps  they  are  orphans  who  have 
been  left  in  half-neglect  while  an  older  brother 
or  sister  is  away  from  home  at  work. 

The  employment  of  such  a  child  as  this — 
even  if,  in  the  case  of  an  infant,  it  is  carried 
on  and  off  the  stage  only  once  or  twice  during 
a  performance — may  enable  a  mother  to  sup- 
port in  fair  comfort  a  family  of  five  or  six.  If  it 
happens  to  be  a  little  older,  the  hoiu*  or  two 
it  spends  in  the  theatre,  at  work  which,  to  it, 
does  not  seem  like  work,  is  infinitely  less  harm- 

[137] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

ful  than  the  time  it  would  otherwise  have  to 
spend  in  a  dirty  tenement,  an  ill-ventilated 
sweat-shop,  or  perhaps  unlooked  after  in  the 
streets. 

Such  children  are  paid  from  $25  to  $75  a 
week.  They  very  seldom  receive  less  than 
the  first  sum.  So  it  may  be  seen  that  they 
are  able  to  earn  from  three  to  seven  times 
more  than  their  parents.  They  must  be  kept 
clean  and  well  fed.  Often  they  are  brought 
for  the  first  time  in  their  little  lives  under  the 
influence  of  the  gospel  of  soap,  water,  and 
sunshine.  It  has  been  my  experience  that 
they  improve  at  once  under  the  changed  con- 
ditions which  the  theatre  provides.  Every- 
thing is  furnished  for  them.  In  many  in- 
stances even  their  food  is  provided.  They 
are  never  left  to  their  own  resources,  for  the 
parent  or  guardian  is  expected  to  be  on  hand 
always  to  look  after  them.  When  a  play  goes 
on  the  road  it  is  always  made  possible  for  her 
to  earn  her  expenses  by  securing  employment 
as  maid  to  one  of  the  actresses  in  the  company. 

I  know  there  is  sometimes  an  impression 
that  children  on  the  stage,  like  Toby  Tyler 
who  ran  away  with  the  circus  in  the  old  story, 
are  pathetic  victims  of  neglect.  But  the  ex- 
act opposite  is  more  likely  to  be  the  case. 
They  stand  in  greater  danger  of  being  spoiled 
by  too  much  attention  and  petting.  Selfish 
motives,   without  reference   to   humane   con- 

[138] 


THE   PROBLEM  OF  THE  CHILD  ACTOR 

siderations,  dictate  that  a  manager  safeguard 
carefully  the  child  who  happens  to  be  in  his 
company,  for  in  its  welfare  lies  his  own  material 
advantage. 

A  little  child  is  always  a  good  influence  in  a 
theatrical  company.  It  becomes  at  once  an 
object  of  general  interest  and  solicitude,  the 
more  so  because  actors  and  actresses,  as  a  rule, 
live  lonely  lives.  Its  effect  is  to  elevate  the 
tone  of  the  organization,  for  all  men  and  women 
are  quite  sure  to  be  careful  in  the  presence 
of  a  child.  I  know  of  no  more  effectual  check 
on  the  deportment  of  people  behind  the  scenes 
of  a  theatre  than  the  thought  that  they  are 
being  watched  by  wide-open,  wondering  eyes. 
Our  tiny  players  may  sometimes  be  a  source 
of  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  us,  but  in  this 
respect  they  furnish  substantial  compensation. 


u 

The  aspect  of  the  problem  of  the  child  actor 
that  I  have  been  considering  up  to  this  point 
has  been  restricted  to  children  in  a  very  ten- 
der period  of  their  lives — that  is,  children 
under  eight  or  ten  years  of  age.  In  the  case 
of  boys  and  girls  beyond  that  age  the  question 
becomes  more  difficult  and  complicated,  for 
then  the  matter  of  education  and  discipline 
begins  to  have  an  important  bearing  on  it. 

But  again  must  be  borne  in  mind  the  con- 
[  139] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE  DOOR 

ditions  which  a  child  of  very  hiimble  origin 
finds  in  the  theatre,  and  what  that  same  child 
would  be  likely  to  encounter  outside  it.  A 
theatre  manager  or  producer  of  plays  cannot 
be  expected  to  superintend  the  education  of 
the  child  whom  he  employs  in  his  company. 
The  most  that  can  be  asked  of  him  is  that 
he  provide  adequately  for  its  comfort,  and 
that  he  regulate  its  hours  of  rehearsal — its 
regular  performances  are  an  arbitrary  matter — 
so  that  it  will  be  given  reasonable  opportunity 
for  study,  play,  and  rest.  The  working-hours, 
except  during  the  period  of  preliminary  rehears- 
als, are,  I  may  say,  never  long,  and  the  work 
itself  is  more  like  play  to  the  child.  It  loves 
to  rehearse  and  to  act.  In  fact,  I  have  never 
known  a  child  to  become  tired  of  playing  its 
part,  and  I  have  found  that  it  is  less  likely 
than  grown  actors  to  become  careless  or  inat- 
tentive. The  severest  reproof  that  can  be 
given  a  child  actor  is  to  deprive  it  a  night  or 
two  from  acting  its  r61e. 

There  is,  as  a  rule,  ample  time  for  a  child 
in  a  theatrical  company,  except  on  Wednes- 
days, which  is  the  established  midweek  mat- 
inee day,  to  attend  to  study,  provided  the 
proper  discipline  is  exercised  by  its  parent  or 
by  the  person  who  happens  to  have  it  in  charge. 
If  the  parent  is  inclined  to  be  lax  in  these 
matters  of  discipline,  the  child  would  be  just 
as  badly  off  if  it  were  not  in  the  theatre. 

[  140] 


THE   PROBLEM  OF  THE  CHH.D  ACTOR 

Each  state  also  has  its  laws  which  regulate 
the  employment  and  dictate  the  education  of 
children,  and  especially  in  the  case  of  the  child 
actor  these  laws  are  rigidly  enforced.  I  wotdd 
not  want  to  be  understood  as  not  favoring 
regulations  which  widely  operate  in  the  interest 
of  children,  especially  children  who  for  one 
reason  or  another  have  been  deprived  of  the 
protection  and  guidance  of  parents.  But  when 
account  is  taken  of  the  thousands  of  ragged, 
ill-fed,  and  almost  abandoned  children,  who 
by  day  and  night  swarm  the  streets  of  every 
large  city,  I  am  led  to  the  belief  that  some 
of  our  authorities  and  charitable  societies  are 
inclined  to  be  over-solicitous  concerning  the 
welfare  of  children  who  find  clean  and  pleasant 
employment  in  our  theatres. 

Many  a  time  I  have  watched  the  grimy 
little  merchants  who  flock  around  the  back 
doors  of  the  big  newspaper  offices  at  midnight, 
in  heat  or  rain  or  cold,  waiting  for  the  bundles 
of  papers,  from  which  they  can  make,  at  best, 
only  about  a  dollar  profit.  I  have  wondered 
who  feeds  them,  who  washes  them,  who  cares 
when  they  come  home.  Then  I  have  con- 
trasted them  with  the  clean,  well-fed  children 
who  come  and  go  through  the  stage  entrance 
of  a  theatre,  and  I  have  never  hesitated  in 
my  opinion  as  to  which  are  the  better  off. 
And  it  should  not  be  forgotten  that  these  two 
groups  of  children  come   from  pretty  much 

[141] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

the  same  class.  Have  the  objectors  on  prin- 
ciple to  the  employment  of  children  on  the 
stage  ever  walked  late  in  the  evening  through 
one  of  the  streets  of  New  York's  lower  East 
Side,  with  its  dense  throngs  of  juvenile  himian- 
ity?     I  wonder! 

If  the  laws  which  affect  the  employment  of 
children  on  the  stage  were  made  uniform  in 
the  various  states,  great  advantages  would 
follow,  both  for  the  children  and  for  the 
theatrical  manager.  Certain  states,  such  as 
Massachusetts,  Illinois,  Maryland,  and  Ohio, 
have  very  drastic  regulations.  They  prohibit 
the  appearance  on  the  public  stage  of  any 
child  under  the  age  of  sixteen.  Other  states, 
such  as  New  York,  Pennsylvania,  and  many 
more,  allow  them  to  appear  in  stage  plays, 
but  with  restrictions  as  to  work  that  might 
be  physically  injurious.  Presumably,  the  au- 
thorities in  all  these  states  have  made  careful 
investigations  before  writing  on  their  statute- 
books  the  laws  which  govern  the  work  of  pro- 
fessional children.  If  so,  is  it  more  harmful 
to  a  child  to  appear  in  the  theatre  in  Massa- 
chusetts or  Illinois  than  in  the  state  of  New 
York?     And  why? 

I  do  not  believe  any  theatrical  manager 
would  argue  for  laxity  in  the  laws  which  safe- 
guard the  well-being  of  child  actors.  But  all 
managers  would  prefer  to  have  such  laws 
standardized.     A    dramatic    production    is    a 

[  142] 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  CHILD  ACTOR 

delicate  work  of  art,  which  is  brought  to  per- 
fection only  after  infinite  thought,  care,  and 
preparation.  The  various  elements  which  com- 
pose it  cannot  be  changed  without  throwing 
its  intricate  machinery  out  of  gear.  All  plays 
are  eventually  sent  on  tour,  and,  once  having 
conformed  to  the  laws  of  the  state  in  which 
they  were  produced,  to  alter  them  to  suit  the 
changing  requirements  of  different  localities 
becomes  fatal  in  many  cases  to  their  artistic 
beauty  and  symmetry,  and  ruinous  to  the  man- 
ager whose  skill,  labor,  and  financial  invest- 
ment they  represent. 

In  New  York,  where  more  children  employed 
in  the  theatre  are  to  be  found  than  in  any  other 
city,  the  question  of  their  schooling  is  claiming 
attention,  and  definite  progress  in  providing 
it  is  being  made.  The  Professional  Children's 
School,  which  is  allied  with  the  Rehearsal  Club 
— a  self-sustaining  institution  organized  by  the 
late  Rt.  Rev.  David  H.  Greer,  D.D.,  and  under 
the  patronage  of  such  responsible  people  as 
the  Rev.  Ernest  M.  Stires,  D.D.,  William  M. 
Embree,  George  H.  Hedges,  Dr.  William  S. 
Thomas,  and  Mrs.  Richard  Mansfield  (forming 
the  advisory  board  for  191 8) — offers  facilities 
throughout  the  school  year  for  the  instruction 
of  child  actors  in  general  studies  and  exists 
imder  the  sanction  and  authority  of  the  New 
York  Board  of  Education.  None  but  children 
who  work  in  the  theatre  are  eligible  to  its 

10  [  143  1 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS   STAGE  DOOR 

classes.  Its  pupils  are  subject  to  the  city's 
truant  laws,  and  they  may  be  transferred 
back  or  forth  to  corresponding  grades  in  the 
public  schools. 

Its  curriculum  is  the  same  that  is  followed 
in  the  regular  schools,  except  that  the  hours 
for  study  and  recitations  are  adapted  to  the 
special  needs  of  the  children  who  attend  it. 
Even  when  its  pupils  are  absent  on  long  the- 
atrical tours,  facilities  which  enable  them  to 
continue  their  studies  are  afforded.  It  also 
offers  annually  three  scholarships  by  which 
apt  pupils  may  continue  their  education  in 
excellent  preparatory  academies.  So  the  claim 
can  no  longer  be  made  that  children  employed 
in  the  theatre  are  denied  educational  advan- 
tages which  are  accessible  to  other  children  of 
their  ages  and  circumstances. 

There  are  always  a  considerable  number  of 
talented  and  more  or  less  experienced  child 
actors  available  to  the  theatrical  manager. 
This  is  especially  true  in  New  York,  where 
nearly  all  the  important  dramatic  and  musical 
productions  of  our  native  stage  are  made  and 
have  their  initial  runs.  Some  stage  directors 
prefer  to  employ  them  because,  within  limita- 
tions, they  are  accustomed  to  stage  surround- 
ings and  know  about  what  is  expected  of  them. 
As  they  have  been  more  or  less  regularly 
before  the  public,  a  manager  who  is  intending 
to  produce  a  play  which  requires  the  use  of 

1 144] 


THE   PROBLEM  OF  THE  CHILD  ACTOR 

children  is  able  to  observe  their  acting  in  other 
plays  and  decide  whether  they  are  suitable  to 
his  purposes. 

But  for  my  own  productions  which  may 
happen  to  contain  child  characters  I  never 
depend  upon  these  so-called  professional  chil- 
dren. I  much  prefer  children  in  my  casts 
who  have  had  very  little  or  no  previous  experi- 
ence on  the  stage.  As  in  the  cases  of  my 
grown  actors,  I  am  always  careful  that  they 
fit  in  appearance,  and,  as  far  as  possible,  in 
temperament  also,  the  characters  which  they 
are  to  represent. 

As  I  plan  my  productions  far  ahead,  I  am 
ever  on  the  lookout  for  the  right  type  of  chil- 
dren, and  I  usually  find  them  in  the  humble 
levels  of  city  life.  I  train  them  according  to 
my  own  methods  and  I  can  quickly  discover 
whether  they  will  be  able  to  understand  what 
they  are  expected  to  do.  It  does  not  need 
a  child  bom  in  luxury  to  impersonate  a  well- 
to-do  child  character  in  a  play.  All  little 
children,  even  the  waifs  in  the  gutter,  think 
in  the  language  and  symbols  of  fairyland. 
As  there  is  nothing  more  interesting  than  child 
psychology,  so  there  is  nothing  more  beautiful 
than  a  child's  imagination,  and  it  is  upon 
these  that  I  try  to  work. 

In  this  way  I  avoid  what  to  me  is  the  most 
exasperating  thing  in  the  theatre — the  child 
who  is  conscious  of  its  own  precocity.     The 

[i4S] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

great  trouble  with  children  who  appear  with 
any  considerable  degree  of  regularity  on  the 
stage  is  that  they  have  been  pampered  and 
overcoached  until  they  have  lost  all  their 
naturalness.  They  have  not  been  made  to 
comprehend  what  they  do,  but  go  through 
certain  actions  and  speak  certain  lines  merely 
because  they  have  been  told  to.  The  result 
is  that  they  fall  into  the  habit  of  moving  about 
like  little  automatons,  and  this  fatal  fault, 
once  having  been  acquired,  can  never  be 
broken.  It  is  due  largely  to  the  fact  that 
they  have  been  too  much  under  the  influence 
of  a  "stage  mother"  or  of  a  director  who  is 
content  to  be  only  a  coach.  They  become 
superficial  and  artificial,  and  the  puppet  strings 
are  always  visible  in  their  acting. 

These  are  some  of  the  reasons  why  I  always 
advise  earnestly  against  putting  a  child  on 
the  stage  at  an  early  age,  even  when  it  has 
shown  great  precocity  for  acting  or  when  it  is 
the  ambition  of  its  parents  to  have  it  choose 
the  theatre  as  a  life  profession.  Many  chil- 
dren recite  well  or  develop  early  ability  for 
memorizing  and  acting,  and  the  natural  pride 
of  their  mothers  and  fathers  straightway  puts 
the  stage  in  their  minds.  If  children  have  great 
natural  talent,  it  should  be  left  alone.  When 
it  is  subjected  to  too  much  coaching,  it  dis- 
appears and  generally  it  does  not  return. 

Furthermore,  the  fact  that  a  child  acts  well 
[146] 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  CHILD  ACTOR 

on  the  stage  gives  no  reason  for  belief  that  it 
will  act  equally  well  when  it  grows  up.  Even 
if  it  have  the  advantage  of  the  most  skilful 
training,  there  comes  a  time  when  it  loses  the 
pretty  manner  that,  as  a  child,  made  it  so 
interesting  and  attractive.  The  treble  of  its 
little  voice,  so  delightful  to  the  ear,  begins  to 
change  to  uncertain  notes.  It  becomes  awk- 
ward in  the  use  of  its  hands  and  feet.  It 
begins  to  be  self-conscious  and  constrained  in 
its  movements.  It  outgrows  the  child  char- 
acters it  has  played,  just  as  it  outgrows  its 
costtmies  and  the  sentiments  which  the  char- 
acters are  introduced  to  express.  For  a  time 
nothing  is  left  for  it  to  put  in  the  place  of  these 
things.  It  is  now  in  the  transition  state  be- 
tween childhood  and  young  maturity  which 
inevitably  must  come  to  every  child.  If  this 
child  had  been  kept  out  of  the  theatre  alto- 
gether, if  it  had  been  prevented  from  accumu- 
lating the  ingrained  mannerisms  and  artificial 
ways  that  are  common  to  almost  all  stage 
children,  it  would  have  had  a  much  better 
chance  of  becoming  a  good  actor  in  later  life. 
I  have  come  across  a  good  many  children 
during  my  thirty-five  years  in  the  theatre 
who  have  afterward  developed  into  actors  of 
high  attainments,  but  they  have  been  the 
exceptions  to  the  rule.  I  have  also  had,  at 
times,  very  precocious  children  in  my  various 
companies.     Little   Percy   Helton,  who  acted 

[147] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

the  child  character  of  Willem  in  my  own  play, 
"The  Return  of  Peter  Grimm,"  was,  for  in- 
stance, a  child  of  remarkable  mental  capacity 
and  adaptability,  and  a  Httle  actor  of  amazing 
skill  and  appeal.  But  I  have  never  exploited 
a  child  solely  on  accoimt  of  its  precocity. 
When  I  have  presented  children  on  my  stages 
— ^which  I  have  frequently  done  and  shall  con- 
tinue to  do — it  has  been  because  of  the  require- 
ments forced  upon  me  by  the  plays  in  which 
they  have  appeared,  and  not  because  of  the 
children  themselves. 

A  discussion  of  the  problem  of  the  child 
actor  must  not  fail  to  take  into  account  the 
case  of  Master  Betty,  the  most  remarkable 
example  of  juvenile  precocity  the  English- 
speaking  theatre — in  fact,  the  theatre  of  the 
whole  world  in  all  time — has  ever  known. 

This  amazing  prodigy,  whose  meteoric  career 
came  in  the  first  years  of  the  last  century, 
was  bom  in  1791,  in  Belfast,  Ireland,  of 
parents  who  were  not  connected  with  the 
theatre.  His  mental  attainments  seem  to 
have  been  inherited  from  his  mother.  Before 
he  was  able  to  read  he  had  learned  to  recite 
and  could  memorize  long  speeches  from  Shake- 
speare's plays,  which  he  delivered  with  a  keen 
sense  of  character  and  accompanied  with 
appropriate  action.  As  he  grew  older  his 
remarkable  gift  was  trained  until,  fearing  that 
he  might  be  led  to  choose  a  theatrical  career, 

[148] 


THE   PROBLEM  OF  THE  CHILD  ACTOR 

his  parents  began  to  discourage  his  love  for 
acting,  and  he  was  sent  away  to  schooL 

When  Master  Betty  was  eleven  years  old 
the  great  Mrs.  Siddons  paid  a  professional 
visit  to  Belfast,  and  the  boy,  temporarily  home 
from  school,  was  taken  to  see  her  in  the  part  of 
Elvira  in  "Pizarro."  Instantly  his  infatua- 
tion for  acting  flamed  up  again.  After  a 
sleepless  night  he  stole  out  of  the  house,  bought 
a  copy  of  "Pizarro,"  and  committed  all  of 
Elvira's  speeches  to  memory  before  night. 

Fearing  that  further  interference  with  his 
passionate  desire  to  act  would  injure  his 
health.  Master  Betty's  father  took  him  to  a 
Belfast  theatrical  manager,  who  heard  him 
recite,  and,  declaring  that  he  was  an  infant 
Garrick,  offered  him  half  the  receipts  of  the 
house  if  he  would  appear  in  the  Belfast  Theatre. 
So  it  came  about  that  he  made  his  first  public 
stage  appearance,  acting  in  the  tragedy  "Zara," 
in  1803,  at  the  age  of  twelve. 

The  boy's  genius  electrified  his  audience 
and  Dublin  soon  insisted  upon  seeing  him. 
Here  he  was  publicly  lauded  and  privately 
feted,  and  then  Cork  demanded  a  chance  to 
worship  him.  By  this  time  he  was  acting  in 
farce  as  well  as  in  tragedy  and  gradually 
accumulating  a  repertoire  of  plays. 

Next  he  invaded  Scotland.  At  Glasgow 
and  Edinburgh,  where  his  fame  had  preceded 
him,  the  theatres  were  not  large  enough  to 

[  149] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

hold  the  clamoring  crowds.  London  began 
to  hear  of  the  infant  Rocius  who  was  amazing 
the  provinces,  and  Driiry  Lane  Theatre  and 
Covent  Garden  competed  to  secure  him.  The 
terms  they  offered  were  the  largest  that  had 
ever  been  paid  to  an  actor.  John  Philip 
Kemble  was  then  receiving  only  the  equivalent 
of  $200  a  week,  yet  the  proprietors  of  Covent 
Garden  were  willing  to  pay  Master  Betty 
more  than  that  simi  for  a  single  night. 

The  upshot  was  that  Covent  Garden  and 
Drury  Lane  agreed  to  share  his  services  and 
Master  Betty  appeared  at  the  former  theatre 
in  1804,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  as  Achmet  in 
"  Barbarossa."  The  chronicles  of  the  times 
tell  how  the  audience  began  to  assemble  as 
early  as  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  jammed 
the  theatre  by  four  in  the  afternoon.  The 
Prince  of  Wales,  afterward  George  IV,  was  in 
attendance,  and  the  boxes  were  filled  with  the 
social  and  artistic  elite  of  the  town.  After 
six  nights  of  delirious  adulation,  the  prodigy 
transferred  to  the  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  where 
the  public  burst  down  the  doors  and  balus- 
trades to  get  in.  Royalty  feted  him  and  the 
wealthy  bestowed  presents  upon  him  which 
mounted  into  fortunes.  Gentleman  Smith, 
the  original  Charles  Surface  in  "The  School 
for  Scandal,"  who  had  retired  from  the  stage 
sixteen  years  before,  gave  the  boy  a  seal  cut 
in  the  likeness  of  David  Garrick,  which  the  great 

[150] 


THE   PROBLEM  OF  THE  CHILD  ACTOR 

tragedian  had  presented  to  him  with  an  in- 
junction not  to  give  it  away  until  an  actor  had 
risen  who  was  worthy  of  the  gift. 

This  frenzy  of  the  London  public  continued 
two  years.  It  reached  its  climax  when  Pitt 
adjourned  the  House  of  Commons  in  order 
that  its  members  might  witness  Master  Betty 
in  a  performance  of  "Hamlet."  Then  the 
furor  over  the  boy  actor  began  to  subside. 
By  1807  interest  in  Master  Betty  had  declined, 
and  the  people,  with  their  returning  sense, 
for  the  first  time  suspected  that  the  critics, 
whom  they  had  driven  from  the  town  for 
questioning  the  depth  and  fiber  of  the  prodigy's 
powers,  had  probably  been  right. 

In  1808  little  was  heard  of  the  marvel,  and 
finally  he  entered  Cambridge  University,  after- 
ward becoming  an  inconspicuous  captain  in  the 
North  Shropshire  Yeomanry  Cavalry.  As  a 
boy,  Master  Betty  could  learn  the  entire  role  of 
"Hamlet"  in  four  days;  as  a  man,  he  had  not  a 
particle  of  his  infantile  theatrical  genius  left. 

The  descent  of  the  youthful  prodigies  of 
our  American  stage  has  not  been  as  pre- 
cipitous as  Master  Betty's,  because  they  have 
not  soared  to  such  exalted  heights.  But 
every  father  and  mother  whose  yoimg  hope- 
ful has  distinguished  itself  as  an  actor  in  child- 
hood should  bear  in  mind  the  fate  of  this  young 
Belfast  phenomenon  of  the  last  century  before 
planning  a  brilliant  career  in  the  theatre  for  it. 

[151] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

It  is  said  of  Master  Betty  that,  in  appear- 
ance, he  was  slight  and  feminine,  with  clear- 
cut  features,  intelligent  expression,  and  small 
eyes.  His  voice  was  rather  monotonous  and 
shrill  in  its  higher  notes.  But  before  an 
audience  he  lost  all  consciousness  of  their 
presence  in  the  identity  of  his  representations. 

Let  his  peculiar  genius  be  analyzed  care- 
fully and  it  will  be  found  that  he  was  a  master 
of  words,  but  not  of  ideas.  No  doubt  he  could 
play  prettily.  But  once  the  allurement  of 
childhood  had  disappeared,  he  found  it  a  very 
different  thing  to  act  with  the  mastery  of  great 
art.  Here  lies  always  the  stumbling-block  in 
the  pathway  of  the  child  actor. 

m 

There  was  a  time  in  our  native  theatre 
when  a  nxmiber  of  avenues  leading  to  careers 
in  the  theatre  for  children  were  open,  but 
which  no  longer  exist.  One  of  the  most 
direct  of  these  was  the  epidemic  of  child 
"Pinafore"  companies  which  spread  over  the 
country  in  the  early  'eighties.  The  great  suc- 
cess of  the  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  operetta, 
both  in  London  and  in  New  York,  suggested 
to  some  ingenious  manager  the  idea  of  present- 
ing it  with  children  in  the  r61es,  and  for  a 
number  of  years  such  amateur  organizations 
were  to  be  found  everywhere. 

I  153] 


THE   PROBLEM  OF  THE  CHILD  ACTOR 

A  considerable  number  of  our  present  actors 
received  their  first  ideas  of  the  stage  and  gained 
their  elementary  experience  in  this  way.  Julia 
Marlowe's  genius  might  not  have  been  de- 
tected if  R.  E.  J.  Miles,  in  Cincinnati,  in  1879, 
had  not  cast  for  the  r61e  of  Sir  Joseph  Porter 
the  little  girl  of  twelve  who  was  then  known 
as  Sarah  Frost.  But,  in  her  case,  as  I  have 
stated  before,  it  was  long  training  outside  the 
theatre  that  developed  the  great  ability  she 
afterward  displayed.  In  the  same  year  Mrs. 
Fiske,  as  little  Minnie  Maddem,  was  develop- 
ing talent  which  has  since  become  so  con- 
spicuous, as  one  of  the  numerous  Ralph  Rack- 
straws.  Fritz  Williams  sang  Sir  Joseph  Porter 
at  fourteen;  at  the  same  age  Annie  Russell 
was  one  of  the  sisterhood  of  diminutive 
Josephines.  Fay  Templet  on  sang  Ralph  Rack- 
straw  in  1880,  and  Annie  Sutherland  about 
this  time  appeared  as  Little  Buttercup  among 
the  children  who  gave  a  season  of  "Pinafore" 
at  Haverly's  Chicago  Theatre.  William  Col- 
lier, at  eleven,  was  singing  in  the  same  operetta. 
Others  whose  first  appearance  in  public  came 
about  in  this  way  are  Grace  Filkins,  Harry 
Woodruff,  and  Edna  May — the  last,  of  course, 
at  a  much  later  date. 

Managers  who  did  not  know  how,  or,  at 
least,  did  not  care,  to  drill  children  for  stage 
r61es  found  in  these  "Pinafore"  companies  a 
great  reservoir  on  which  they  coiild  draw  at 

[153] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

any  time.  Child  players  were  more  needed 
then  than  now,  perhaps,  for  it  was  the  period 
in  which  intense  emotional  acting  was  popular, 
and  eminent  stars  who  were  in  the  ascendant 
were  in  the  habit  of  securing  their  most  poig- 
nant effects  with  the  aid  of  children  in  the 
scenes. 

The  child  actor  was  necessary  to  Clara 
Morris,  as  her  performances  in  "Miss  Multon" 
and  many  other  emotional  dramas  in  which 
she  appeared  reveal.  The  same  applies  to 
Madame  Janauschek.  Joseph  Jefferson,  J.  K. 
Emmett,  and,  in  later  years,  James  A.  Heme 
are  other  actors  who  were  always  at  their  best 
with  little  children  as  foils. 

There  are  also  three  plays  which  have  left 
an  imprint  on  the  native  theatre,  all  of  which 
were  conspicuous  for  the  nimiber  of  children 
who  at  various  times  have  appeared  in  them. 
A  census  of  the  child  actors  who  have  imper- 
sonated Little  Eva  in  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin" 
and  the  little  folk  in  "Little  Lord  Faimtleroy" 
and  "Editha's  Burglar" — with  which  Elsie 
Leslie's  name  is  best  associated — would  form 
a  legion. 

Some  of  the  most  interesting  experiences  I 
have  ever  had  in  the  theatre  have  come  out 
of  the  training  of  children  for  my  productions, 
and  the  process  of  their  training  has  involved 
much  of  the  most  important  and  perplexing 
work  I  have  done.     To  teach  a  child  to  act 

[154] 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  CHILD  ACTOR 

in  the  stereotyped  manner  of  most  stage  chil- 
dren is  not  very  difficult;  but  to  drill  a  child 
actually  to  impersonate  character  is  a  very 
different  matter,  which  requires  special  facul- 
ties, not  the  least  of  which  are  infinite  patience 
and  great  persistence. 

When  I  am  about  to  produce  a  play  requir- 
ing children  I  have  several  of  the  right  ages 
and  types  brought  before  me.  I  am  careful 
to  inquire,  first  of  all,  as  to  the  motive  of  the 
parents  in  offering  their  children  for  employ- 
ment. If  I  find  among  them  a  ''stage  mother" 
who  has  deluded  herself  into  believing  her 
child  is  a  genius  who  will  decide  the  fate  of  any 
play  in  which  it  appears,  that  child  is  very 
certain  not  to  be  engaged  by  me.  I  explain 
to  a  mother  that  I  shall  expect  her  to  give 
the  child  every  possible  attention  when  it  is 
not  actually  on  the  stage,  but  that  every  detail 
of  its  drill  must  be  left  to  me. 

Having  found  the  right  children  for  my 
purposes,  the  next  important  step  is  to  become 
acquainted  with  them.  It  is  fatal  to  the  suc- 
cess of  a  child  in  the  theatre  if  the  stage  direc- 
tor first  approach  it  as  a  master.  When  the 
child  is  inclined  to  fear  its  teacher,  or  becomes 
constrained  and  embarrassed  in  his  presence, 
it  will  never  learn  to  act  with  freedom  or 
naturalness. 

So  I  sometimes  spend  hours  in  the  process 
of  getting  acquainted.     In  my  theatre  in  New 

[155] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

York  there  is  a  large  rehearsal-room  which 
can  be  turned  into  an  excellent  playroom, 
and  I  have  it  fixed  up  with  toys  so  that  it  will 
be  likely  to  attract  a  child's  interest.  During 
the  rehearsals  of  my  production  of  "Daddies," 
in  which  there  were  five  little  children  who 
represented  unfortunates  that  had  been  or- 
phaned by  the  war,  this  room  became  much 
more  a  nursery  than  a  rehearsal-room. 

For  a  time  I  romp  with  the  children,  with- 
out mentioning  the  work  they  are  about  to 
do.  This  time — it  may  be  several  hours,  or 
even  days — I  do  not  consider  wasted.  I  am 
now  getting  the  children  to  know  me  and  to 
feel  confidence  in  me.  At  the  same  time  I 
am  carefully  observing  them,  studying  their 
temperaments  and  natures  and  manners,  and 
deciding  what  is  the  best  way  to  mold  them 
to  my  needs.  We  often  have  luncheon  and 
dinner  together,  talk  about  everything  that 
appeals  to  a  child's  fancy,  and  thus  gradually 
get  on  familiar  terms.  Meanwhile  my  cos- 
tume designers  are  also  observing  them  to 
determine  what  will  be  most  appropriate  for 
them.  It  sometimes  happens  during  this  pre- 
liminary period  of  getting  acquainted  that  I 
detect  faults  in  a  child  which  I  feel  I  cannot 
overcome.  Some  children  are  superlatively 
imaginative  and  nervous;  others  are  superla- 
tively dull  and  phlegmatic.  It  is  with  these 
two  extremes  that  it  is  hardest  to  deal. 

[156] 


THE   PROBLEM  OF  THE  CHILD  ACTOR 

At  length  I  have  decided  as  to  the  adapta- 
bility of  the  child,  or  children,  and  then  I 
begin  to  lead  them  by  degrees  into  the  play 
in  which  they  are  to  act.  Some  stage  direc- 
tors make  the  great  mistake  of  teaching  chil- 
dren only  the  lines  which  they  are  expected 
to  speak  and  describing  to  them  only  the 
scenes  in  which  they  are  to  appear.  That 
has  never  been  my  method.  Instead,  I  am 
careful  to  explain  the  whole  play  to  them.  I 
try  to  make  it  appeal  to  their  imaginations  as 
a  story.  I  want  them  to  feel  that  every  detail 
in  it  is  personal  to  them.  As  there  is  no  limit 
to  a  bright  child's  imagination,  this  is  not 
such  a  difficult  task  as  it  seems — not  even  in 
the  case  of  a  very  intricate  drama.  A  little 
child  can  soon  be  taught  to  imagine  that 
it  has  a  father  who  is  in  prison,  a  mother  who 
is  ill  and  in  need,  or  even  that  it  is  some  one 
different  than  it  really  is. 

When  they  have  fully  grasped  the  story 
and  its  meaning,  I  begin  to  teach  them  to  go 
through  their  parts,  either  in  the  rehearsal- 
room  or  on  the  stage.  Meanwhile  they  have 
been  learning,  invariably  with  great  rapidity, 
the  lines  which  they  are  to  speak.  I  try  to 
make  them  understand  that  they  must  do  as  I 
direct,  and  I  caution  the  grown  actors  not 
to  show  the  first  sign  of  impatience  if  the 
little  ones  do  not  at  first  grasp  what  they  are 
to  do.     When  children  are  being  drilled  on 

[157] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

my  stage,  I  reserve  for  myself  the  sole  right 
to  be  impatient  or  severe,  and  I  make  it  a 
point  never  to  exercise  it. 

I  go  over  sentence  after  sentence  with  these 
little  actors,  showing  them  how  to  combine 
their  movements  with  what  they  are  saying. 
Generally  I  act  out  their  r61es  in  detail  for 
them,  but  I  am  particularly  careful  to  warn 
them  never  to  mimic  me.  My  purpose  is  to 
impress  upon  them  just  what  is  to  be  done, 
and  then  induce  them  to  do  it  in  their  own 
way.  I  find  that  unconsciously  they  absorb 
my  meaning  and  quickly  fit  themselves  into 
the  complications  of  the  play.  How  quickly 
this  can  be  accomplished  depends  not  so  much 
upon  how  exact  is  the  child's  knowledge  of 
what  it  is  expected  to  do,  but  how  clearly  it 
comprehends  what  is  the  meaning  of  every- 
thing that  is  happening  around  it. 

All  children,  of  course,  cannot  be  trained 
alike;  in  this  respect  they  are  not  different 
from  experienced  adult  actors.  With  some  I 
get  my  best  results  by  cooing  and  caressing, 
and  with  others  by  directing  and  coaxing. 
Like  grown  actors,  also,  I  find  that  some  child 
performers  are  able  to  speak  their  lines  most 
effectively  while  sitting  and  that  others  can 
best  carry  out  my  intention  while  standing 
or  moving  about.  In  such  matters  as  these 
it  is  the  temperament  of  the  child  that  decides. 

When  it  comes  time  for  a  public  perform- 
[158I 


THE   PROBLEM  OF  THE  CHILD  ACTOR 

ance,  the  children  on  my  stage  are  the  source 
of  the  shghtest  of  my  worries.  By  that  time 
we  are  on  a  plane  of  companionship.  I  know 
exactly  what  they  will  do.  I  never  fear  that 
they  will  forget  their  lines.  A  bit  of  stage 
business  may  now  and  then  escape  their 
memories,  but  the  lines  of  their  parts  they  are 
sure  to  remember.  In  fact,  it  generally  hap- 
pens, by  the  time  the  preliminary  rehearsals 
of  a  play  are  at  an  end,  that  the  child  actors 
in  its  cast  have  not  only  memorized  perfectly 
all  their  own  dialogue,  but  also  that  of  all 
the  other  actors  who  appear  in  the  scenes 
with  them.  Our  audiences  are  very  little 
aware  how  often  a  child  actor  saves  the  effect 
of  an  entire  scene  by  prompting  one  of  the 
older  actors  whose  lines,  through  nervousness 
or  inadvertence,  have  suddenly  left  him. 

The  child  always  takes  its  acting  seriously. 
It  seldom  suffers  from  fear  or  embarrassment 
in  an  audience's  presence.  All  that  it  has  to 
do  in  a  play  becomes  very  real  to  it,  and  it 
loses  consciousness  of  everything  that  lies 
beyond  the  footlights.  How  naturally  it  ac- 
complishes its  part  depends  on  how  free  it  is 
from  the  conventional  manners  which  it  may 
have  acquired  in  other  plays,  and  how  careful 
has  been  the  drill  which  it  has  imdergone  for  its 
immediate  work. 

To  all  who  may  harbor  a  belief  that  the 
child  actor  is  a  poor  little  bond-slave,  placed 

11  [159] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

in  the  theatre  before  its  time  to  earn  its  living, 
I  would  say  that  invariably  it  loves  its  work 
and  its  lot.  In  the  great  majority  of  cases 
it  is  an  unfortunate  child — compared  with 
well-to-do  children  in  normal  domestic  circum- 
stances whose  only  thought  is  to  breathe  and  eat 
and  grow  up.  If  the  fortunes  of  all  our  lives 
were  distributed  more  equally  and  justly — es- 
pecially among  our  little  folk — I  would  deplore 
a  condition  that  makes  it  necessary  for  any 
child  to  earn  a  living  for  itself  or  for  others. 

But  the  conditions  which  affect  people  are 
not  the  same.  Some  children  are  destined  to 
luxury  and  comfort,  and  some  to  want,  even  to 
neglect.  I  can  only  add  that,  if  a  child  must 
work — no  child  really  should  have  to  work  at 
all — the  employment  it  finds  in  the  theatre  is 
more  pleasant  and  less  likely  to  do  it  physical 
harm  than  any  other  that  is  accessible  to  it. 

The  problem  of  the  child  actor  is  one  which 
invites  our  wisest  consideration.  That  it  is  a 
problem,  we  who  are  in  the  theatre  know  only 
too  well.  Yet  the  harshness  of  the  problem 
is  softened  when  we  stop  to  consider  for  a 
moment  the  attitude  of  the  child  actor  toward 
its  work.  It  is  work  of  which  a  child  never 
wearies,  work  which  to  it  means  only  play. 
Does  any  theatre-goer  imagine  that  his  own 
enjoyment  of  Barrie's  "Peter  Pan"  was  greater 
than  that  of  the  child  actors  who  capered  in  its 
fanciful  scenes? 

[i6o] 


Chapter  V 

IMPORTANT   AIDS    TO    THE   ACTOR'S 

ART 


TN  the  experience  of  every  one  who  choose? 
*  the  fine  arts  as  the  field  of  his  work,  and 
succeeds  to  a  reasonable  degree  in  accomplish- 
ing the  results  which  he  has  set  as  the  goal 
of  his  ambition,  there  must  come  a  time  when 
he  can  look  back  with  satisfaction  upon 
hostile  criticism.  My  own  endeavor  has  always 
been  devoted  to  the  art  of  the  theatre.  As 
it  is  the  most  democratic  of  all  the  arts,  and 
is  therefore  subject  constantly  to  scrutiny  and 
study  from  the  most  divergent  points  of  view, 
I  have  not  escaped  the  inevitable  penalty  of 
being  sometimes  misunderstood. 

In  one  branch  of  the  art  of  the  theatre, 
especially,  my  purposes  and  methods  have 
aroused  discussion  which  has  resulted  in  ex- 
tremes of  encouraging  approval  or  discourag- 
ing objection.  There  was  a  time  when  it  was 
charged  against  me  that  I  placed  undue 
emphasis  upon  stage  decoration,  the  use  of 

[161I 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

light  and  color,  of  scenic  investiture  and  minute 
detail  of  costuming ;  that  I  held  the  importance 
of  these  adjuncts  above  the  play  itself  and  its 
interpretation  through  the  acting  art. 

It  was  argued  by  those  who  disparaged  my 
methods,  or  mistook  my  purposes,  that  the 
chief  effort  in  my  dramatic  productions  was  to 
appeal  to  the  eye  and  to  subordinate  the  work 
of  the  dramatist,  which  must  be  the  founda- 
tion of  every  production  of  the  stage,  to  mere 
external  display.  This  view  of  my  work  as 
a  dramatic  producer,  which  was  sometimes 
expressed  twenty-five  years  ago,  but  has  un- 
dergone a  radical  and  significant  change  as 
time  has  advanced,  caused  me  to  be  regarded 
in  some  quarters  as  a  kind  of  stage  carpenter 
or  decorator  who  was  attempting  to  veil  some 
sort  of  hocus-pocus  by  the  pretense  of  art. 

At  the  same  time,  my  method  of  presenting 
plays  was  never  without  its  strong  advocates. 
The  latter  saw  more  clearly  than  my  adverse 
critics.  They  divined  that  the  careful  atten- 
tion I  gave  to  the  extraneous  details  of  my 
productions  was  only  for  the  purpose  of  inten- 
sifying and  interpreting  the  mood  of  the  play 
and  of  the  characters,  and  that  I  was  trying  by 
legitimate  artistic  means  to  stir  the  emotions 
of  my  audiences. 

In  some  of  these  controversies  I  have  been 
hailed  as  a  wizard  of  color  and  light  and  in 
other    equally    superlative    terms.     For    such 

[162I 


The  Electric  Switchboard  of  the  Belasco  Theatre,  the  Largest 

in  America 


IMPORTANT  AIDS  TO  THE  ACTOR'S  ART 

encouraging  support  I  have  always  been  grate- 
ful, but  for  the  final  verdict  I  have  looked  with 
confidence  to  the  best  taste  of  the  public.  A 
worker  in  the  arts  is  never  on  unsafe  ground 
when  he  courts  both  praise  and  blame;  he  is 
in  danger  only  when  he  is  ignored. 

It  was  my  fortune  to  come  into  the  theatre 
during  a  time  when  fighting  appliances  and 
the  use  of  illimiinating  effects  were  under- 
going a  great  scientific  revolution.  The  in- 
vention and  perfection  of  the  electric  light  fall 
easily  within  this  period.  It  is  usual  to  con- 
sider the  inventions  of  Thomas  A.  Edison 
from  the  viewpoint  of  their  scientific,  com- 
mercial, and  practical  utility.  We  of  the 
theatre  realize  how  great  also  is  the  debt  which 
the  dramatic  producer's  art  owes  for  its  present 
perfection  to  this  magician  who  is  not  of  the 
theatre  and  into  whose  calculations  the  bene- 
fits which  the  stage  was  to  derive  from  his  dis- 
coveries probably  did  not  at  first  enter. 

My  first  work  as  a  producer  of  plays  was 
done  in  the  Far  West,  where  the  theatre  was 
still  in  a  primitive  state.  I  was,  of  course, 
much  hampered  by  the  imperfect  methods  of 
illumination  which  were  then  at  our  command. 
I  began  with  flickering  candles  and  smelly 
oil-lamps,  and  observed  the  improvement  when 
they,  in  turn,  were  replaced  by  gas. 

Each  of  these  changes  brought  me  a  step 
nearer  to  the  ideals  which  I  had  formed  in  my 

[163] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

dreams,  but  which  then  still  seemed  far  away. 
It  was  inevitable  that  I  should  utilize  to  the  full- 
est extent  every  new  means  by  which  the  true 
effects  of  nature  could  be  more  closely  repro- 
duced in  the  theatre.  So  it  is  upon  applying  to 
the  stage's  art  electric  lighting,  and  the  more 
perfect  use  of  color  which  it  has  made  possible, 
that  a  great  part  of  my  thought  and  energies  as 
a  dramatic  producer  has  been  concentrated. 

By  good  fortune  my  work  in  the  New  York 
theatre,  with  its  wider  facilities,  began  about 
the  time  of  the  transition  from  the  stock- 
company  system  of  presenting  plays  to  pro- 
ductions which  were  made  with  a  view  to 
greater  permanence,  in  which  more  careful 
attention  could  be  given  to  the  details  of  their 
staging.  This  change  in  the  management  of 
theatres  offered  better  opportunity  and  at  the 
same  time  greater  incentive  for  experiment 
with  delicate  illuminating  effects. 

Before  that  time  it  had  been  the  practice, 
as  a  means  of  stirring  the  feelings  of  audiences 
or  intensifying  the  emotional  effect  of  a  speech 
or  situation,  to  have  some  sort  of  a  musical 
interpretation  accompany  the  play.  A  trace 
of  the  custom  still  survives  in  the  term  "melo- 
drama," which  implies  drama  with  a  musical 
accompaniment;  but  my  conviction  was  that 
the  most  powerful  emotional  appeal  could  be 
made  and  the  strongest  interpretative  power 
gained  by  the  use  of  color  and  light. 

[164] 


IMPORTANT  AIDS  TO  THE  ACTOR'S  ART 

From  the  time  when,  as  a  boy,  I  used  to 
play  with  toy  theatres  lighted  with  lamps, 
I  have  tried  to  reach  my  audiences  through 
their  sensitiveness  to  color  and  light.  Later, 
when  I  became  stage  director  for  managers 
who  did  not  have  the  financial  resources  to 
provide  even  adequate  scenic  decoration,  I 
made  my  strongest  appeal  in  the  same  way. 
To  use  color,  not  for  mere  adornment,  but  to 
convey  a  message  to  the  hearts  of  audiences, 
has  become  my  creed.  The  proof  that  I  am 
right  is  my  love  of  nature  and  my  intuitive 
knowledge  of  its  moods. 

I  recall  that  when  I  was  a  child  I  delighted 
in  watching  the  changing  effects  of  light  upon 
the  mountains,  the  ravines,  the  river-banks, 
and  the  sea.  Every  hue  in  the  heavens  by 
day  or  by  night  interested  me;  and  then  I 
began  to  study  the  moods  of  nature. 

For  nature  is  as  complex  in  her  moods  as  a 
woman.  Mark  the  lowering  anger  of  a  March 
day,  with  its  driving  clouds  and  frowning, 
barren  landscape.  But  April  is  all  tears  and 
smiles,  symbolizing  the  spirit  of  awakening 
nature  and  growing  things.  Let  one  watch 
the  changing  hues  of  the  grasses  and  leaves 
on  a  midstmimer  afternoon  to  imderstand  how 
restless  and  variable  are  nature's  moods.  Octo- 
ber, with  its  russets  and  browns,  suggests  the 
mood  of  sadness;  and  winter,  spreading  its 
coverlet   of  white,   breathes   peace  and   rest. 

[165] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

One  needs  only  read  the  inexhaustible  book  of 
nature  to  learn  and  feel  all  these  moods. 

In  the  same  way  colors  bear  a  direct  relation 
to  the  moods  and  traits  of  human  nature.  It 
has  been  no  mere  convention  or  habit  in  their 
use  which  has  established  this  fact.  There  is 
something  instinctively  regal  in  the  purple, 
so  it  has  become  the  symbol  of  kings.  White 
stands  for  youth  and  innocence  and  purity. 
Red  typifies  the  tragedy  of  life,  with  its  accom- 
paniment of  hideousness  and  violence.  Look 
upon  the  drab  and  the  gray,  and  instinctively 
you  become  sedate  and  grave.  Black  stands 
for  somber  things — the  accepted  symbol  of 
mourning  and  death. 

Romantic  impulse  springs  from  the  half- 
lights,  and  thus  the  twilight,  with  its  silvery 
blue,  is  the  hour  for  lovers'  trysts.  Observe 
the  effect  of  the  yellow  gleam  of  a  lamp,  shin- 
ing from  a  window  into  the  darkness,  and  note 
the  feeling  of  half-fear  that  involuntarily 
steals  over  you.  Yet  courage  comes  in  the 
clear  white  light  of  the  noonday  sun.  Look 
upon  the  sickly  moon  and  detect  at  once  a 
feeling  of  sadness.  Our  greatest  novelists 
have  never  failed  to  take  advantage  of  these 
psychological  phenomena  of  color  upon  the 
imagination  to  intensify  the  spell  into  which 
they  cast  the  reader. 

If,  as  I  conceive  it,  the  purpose  of  the  theatre 
be  to  hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature,  I  know  of  no 

f  166I 


IMPORTANT  AIDS  TO  THE  ACTOR'S  ART 

better  place  to  obtain  the  effects  of  nature 
than  to  go  to  nature  itself.  To  fulfil  this  pur- 
pose with  integrity,  to  surround  the  mimic 
life  of  the  characters  in  drama  with  the  natural 
aspects  of  life,  to  seek  in  light  and  color  the 
same  interpretative  relation  to  spoken  dialogue 
that  music  bears  to  the  words  of  a  song,  is,  I 
contend,  the  real  art,  the  true  art  of  the  theatre. 
He  who  goes  direct  to  nature  for  the  effects  he 
introduces  on  the  stage  can  never  be  wrong, 
because  nature  itself  is  never  wrong.  It  is 
upon  this  creed  that  I  base  my  faith  in  realism 
in  dramatic  art. 

The  trouble  is,  however,  that  a  school  of 
decorators  has  grown  up  within  the  theatre 
which  is  trying  to  improve  upon  the  effects  of 
nature.  Thus  has  risen  the  so-called  "new 
art"  of  the  stage.  It  has  resulted  in  the  eccen- 
tricities of  coloring  and  lighting  that  in  very 
recent  years  have  been  having  a  fitful  vogue. 
My  own  belief  is  that  it  is  not  only  a  negation 
of  truth,  but  a  waste  of  time,  to  try  to  improve 
upon  nature,  because  from  it  emerges  the 
tawdry,  the  bizarre,  and  the  unreal. 

This  movement  has  not  been  confined  wholly 
to  the  theatre,  but  has  spread  among  all  the 
other  fine  arts.  It  has  been  utilized  by  un- 
skilled workers  in  the  arts  to  conceal  their 
deficiencies,  and  it  has  been  lauded  and  cham- 
pioned by  faddists  who  are  always  ready  to 
fancy  that  they  discern  sublime  truth  in  things 

I167I 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

that  to  normal  eyes  are  grotesque  and  unreal. 
It  has  manifested  itself  in  the  theatre  in  opaque 
backings,  in  the  vivid,  deadly  colorings  of 
extreme  impressionism,  and  in  exaggerated 
architecture. 

Yet  out  of  all  this  eccentricity — this  striving 
to  be  "different"  at  any  cost — much  good  is 
eventually  to  come.  Already  this  efifort  to 
exaggerate  the  effects  of  nature  is  providing 
its  own  antidote.  From  it  all  will  re-emerge 
the  real  art  of  the  theatre,  which  will  be  found 
to  constitute  just  this — lighting,  coloring,  sim- 
plicity, according  to  the  established  laws  of 
nature. 

It  must  be  borne  in  mind  in  this  connection 
that  methods  and  fashions  on  the  stage  are 
variable  and  that  the  theatre  always  reflects 
the  taste  and  proclivities  of  its  own  time. 
As  the  day  of  the  cluttered  and  overcrowded 
drawing-room  is  past,  so  is  the  time  of  the 
overdecorated  stage.  It  is  not  necessary  to 
look  to  the  theatre  to  find  the  evidence  of  this 
radical  change  in  taste.  Every  interior  decora- 
tor who  is  commissioned  to  furnish  a  home 
and  make  it  livable  shapes  his  work  in  accord- 
ance with  the  new  tendency.  He  now  hangs 
few  pictures  or  ornaments  on  the  walls.  The 
furniture  he  provides  is  only  such  as  is  required 
for  actual  and  practical  use.  Simplicity  has 
become  the  key-note  of  every  tasteful  home, 
and    the    same    tendency    toward    simplicity 

[168I 


IMPORTANT  AIDS  TO  THE  ACTOR'S  ART 

extends  even  to  the  making  and  arrangement 
of  a  flower-garden. 

If  the  stage  director  of  a  modern  play  of 
only  a  few  years  ago  had  limited  his  decorative 
scheme  to  the  simplicity  for  which  he  now 
strives,  his  work  would  surely  have  been  sub- 
ject to  general  protest.  Those  were  the  years 
when  homes  were  pretentiously  ornate,  and 
audiences  consequently  demanded  similar  ef- 
fects in  the  mimic  homes  of  the  stage.  It  was 
then  that  the  large  expense  involved  in  the 
scenic  mounting  of  a  drama  was  accepted  as 
the  measure  of  its  appropriateness  and  effec- 
tiveness. 

But  who  can  tell  how  long  this  present  taste 
for  simplicity  will  prevail?  Fashions  change 
constantly  among  the  people,  and  their  in- 
fluence upon  the  decorative  art  of  the  theatre 
is  immediate.  I  am  not  so  sure  that  the  now 
prevailing  taste  will  continue  long,  for  what 
suits  the  present  hour  never  appeals  strongly 
to  the  next. 

Acting  and  all  kinds  of  stage  "business" 
also  change  with  the  times,  in  order  to  keep 
in  harmony  with  their  surroundings.  The 
actor's  method  is  now  keyed  to  the  note  of 
naturalism.  The  excessive  restlessness  on  the 
stage  which  prevailed  a  decade  or  so  ago  has 
given  way  to  restfulness.  The  deportment  of 
characters  in  a  play  is  now  the  same  as  the 
deportment  of  well-mannered  people  in  the  pri- 

[169] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

vacy  of  their  homes.  There  is  less  sitting  on 
tables,  less  crossing  and  recrossing  the  stage 
at  regular  intervals,  less  squatting  on  sofas, 
and  less  bouncing  from  chair  to  chair.  The 
stage  decorator  shows  himself  to  be  most 
resourceful  and  efficient,  and  helps  best  to 
aid  the  art  of  the  theatre  when  he  succeeds  in 
preserving  the  tension  and  interest  of  a  scene 
while  his  characters  hardly  move  from  their 
positions. 

Whether  the  scene  be  an  exterior  or  interior, 
no  matter  what  be  the  subject  with  which  it 
is  concerned,  one  of  the  great  assisting  factors 
in  strengthening  its  appeal  to  an  audience 
is  the  stage  decorator's  skilful  use  and  manip- 
ulation of  lights.  Indeed,  the  regulation  and 
diffusion  of  light,  and  the  arrangement  of  color 
effect  in  a  simply  furnished  sitting-room  scene, 
are  not  less  important,  and  also  not  much  less 
difficult,  than  the  creation  of  what  may  seem 
to  be  a  far  more  intricately  contrived  sunset 
panorama. 

Because  I  have  preferred  to  move  cautiously, 
and  have  not  been  influenced  by  every  new 
eccentricity  of  stage-lighting,  I  will  not  plead 
guilty  to  being  unprogressive  in  this  important 
department  of  dramatic  production.  Of  late 
there  has  been  a  good  deal  of  discussion  con- 
cerning the  more  natural  effects  to  be  gained 
by  the  omission  of  footlights,  which  almost 
invariably  cast   unnatural  shadows  upon  the 

[  170] 


IMPORTANT  AIDS  TO  THE  ACTOR'S  ART 

scenery  and  the  faces  of  the  actors.  To  do 
away  with  footHghts  has  even  been  heralded 
as  a  new  and  important  innovation  in  the  art  of 
the  stage  director. 

But  it  happens  that  as  far  back  as  my  produc- 
tion of  "The  Passion  Play"  in  San  Francisco, 
thirty-five  years  ago,  I  presented  whole  scenes 
without  resorting  to  footlights,  and  I  used  the 
now  antiquated  but  recently  revived  "bull's- 
eyes"  set  along  the  balcony  railing  to  obtain 
the  effect  of  level  rays.  In  the  days  of  the  old 
Madison  Square  Theatre  I  omitted  footlights 
in  the  presentation  of  "The  Rajah"  and  in 
some  of  the  scenes  in  the  elder  De  Mille's 
"Delmore's  Daughters" — plays  now  almost 
forgotten — and  for  the  most  impressive  effects 
I  secured  in  "The  Darling  of  the  Gods"  of 
fifteen  years  ago,  in  such  scenes  as  the  Bamboo 
Forest,  the  River  of  Souls,  and  the  Death 
Chamber,  footlights  were  entirely  discarded. 
In  "Adrea"  not  a  footlight  was  turned  on 
during  the  play,  and  the  same  course  was  fol- 
lowed in  "The  Return  of  Peter  Grimm,"  "The 
Phantom  Rival,"  and  "  Marie-Odile,"  when 
certain  scenes  in  these  plays  justified  it. 

I  did  not  call  attention  to  these  changes 
from  the  usual  method  of  lighting  a  stage,  and 
I  never  regarded  them  as  innovations  or  dis- 
coveries; to  me  they  were  only  a  means  to 
an  end — a  natural  and  consistent  way  of 
accomplishing  certain  effects  which  I  thought 

[171] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

necessary  for  the  proper  production  of  these 
particular  plays. 

II 

In  our  American  playhouses  it  is  not  usual 
to  find  a  workshop  fully  equipped  with  ma- 
chinery and  provided  with  power  necessary  for 
running  it.  But  for  years,  ever  since  I  was 
financially  able  to  maintain  it,  I  have  had  an 
experimental  electrical  laboratory  in  the  base- 
ment of  my  theatre.  So  far  as  I  am  aware, 
it  is  the  only  one  of  its  kind  in  the  world. 
Every  illimiinating  appliance  I  have  ever  used 
on  my  stages  has  been  invented  in  it.  At 
any  hour  in  the  day,  and  often  far  into  the 
night,  experts  are  busy  with  me  or  under  my 
direction  in  this  unique  little  workshop,  ex- 
perimenting with  my  light  and  color  devices, 
trying  by  every  means  that  ingenuity  can 
suggest  to  bring  my  stage  into  closer  harmony 
with  the  secrets  of  nature.  Even  Mr.  Edison 
in  his  great  laboratories  is  not  more  industrious 
than  we. 

Many  of  the  inventions  we  have  developed 
here  have  been  adopted  in  theatres  all  over 
the  world.  Very  often  theatrical  experts  have 
come  from  Europe  to  study  our  methods, 
and  it  has  been  a  common  thing  for  workmen 
to  obtain  jobs  on  my  mechanical  staff  only 
for  the  purpose  of  discovering  all  they  can  and 
then   carrying   their   knowledge   back   to   the 

[172] 


The  "Light  Bridge"  of  the  Bclasco  Theatre 

This  bridge  is  placed  horizontally  above  the  proscenium  arch  and 
from  it  are  operated  "baby  lights"  (miniature  spot  lights)  which  work 
in  conjunction  with  the  Ijattery  of  perpendicular  baby  lights  on  each 
side  of  the  proscenium  arch 


Machine-shops  in  the  Second  Sub-cellar  Under  the  Belasco 

Theatre 
This  is  the  only  playhouse  in  New  York  that  has  a  machine-shop 
operated  by  power.     Here  are  made  all  the  new  lighting  and  mechanical 
effects   used   in   David   Belasco's   dramatic   productions 


IMPORTANT  AIDS  TO  THE  ACTOR'S  ART 

producers  who  sent  them  to  my  shop.  But 
such  secret  tactics  are  unnecessary.  Every 
one  is  invited  to  come  in  and  watch  us  if  he 
wishes,  because  whatever  devices  I  use  in  one 
production  will  be  changed  and  improved  in 
the  next.  We  try  never  to  stand  still;  our 
motto  is  always  to  keep  moving  ahead. 

It  happens  that  time  and  money  are  often 
wasted  in  our  underground  workshop,  from 
which  other  theatrical  managers  get  the  benefit. 
I  have  spent  as  much  as  $5,000  in  an  effort  to 
imitate  certain  delicate  colorings  of  a  sunset, 
and  have  ended  by  throwing  aside  the  scene 
altogether.  When  I  was  preparing  "The  Girl 
of  the  Golden  West"  I  experimented  an  entire 
summer  to  reproduce  the  hazy,  shifting  hues 
of  the  sun  as  it  sinks  below  the  Sierra  Nevada 
Mountains  in  California.  It  was  a  very  beauti- 
ful sunset  that  we  contrived,  but  it  was  not 
even  remotely  Calif ornian.  So  we  proceeded  to 
something  else  and  I  sold  that  simset  scene, 
which  had  been  the  fruits  of  three  months* 
work,  to  another  manager  for  a  nominal  sum 
and  he  afterward  used  it  with  great  success 
in  one  of  his  own  productions. 

In  the  same  way  many  other  effects  which 
cost  me  thousands  of  dollars  to  accomplish, 
owing  to  the  amount  of  experimenting  they 
required,  have  been  copied  by  others  at  trivial 
cost. 

In  my  workshop  was  invented  the  new  sys- 
[173] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

tem  of  horizontal  lighting  which  made  neces- 
sary the  complete  architectural  remodeling  of 
the  stage  of  the  Belasco  Theatre  before  the 
production  of  "  The  Boomerang"  in  the  autumn 
of  1915.  Within  a  year  every  theatre  in  New 
York  which  makes  any  effort  at  progressiveness 
had  adopted  the  hood  and  side-lights,  with  their 
peculiar  dimmers  and  reflectors  which  formed 
the  basis  of  the  process. 

Years  before  this  the  "Du  Barry  lights"  and 
"baby  lights,"  which  afterward  went  all  over 
the  world,  had  their  origin  in  my  laboratory. 
It  may  be  of  interest  to  know  that  the  former, 
which  I  invented  for  my  production  of  "Du 
Barry,"  were  brought  into  existence  on  account 
of  the  brilliant  red  of  Mrs.  Leslie  Carter's  hair 
and  the  peculiar  coloring  of  her  complexion. 

She  was  like  an  April  day — all  simshine  and 
rain — and,  as  she  was  a  woman  of  great  pas- 
sion and  power,  her  emotional  scenes  would 
tend  to  accentuate  the  lines  in  her  face  and 
take  away  her  beauty.  I  saw  at  once  that  the 
lights  which  were  suitable  for  the  other  actors 
in  the  company,  both  in  hue  and  intensity, 
were  not  adapted  to  her.  They  might  make 
the  other  actresses  beautiful,  but  they  made 
Mrs.  Carter  look  hideous.  To  coimteract  this 
effect  I  contrived  a  system  of  small,  moving 
individual  lights  which  were  kept  fixed  upon 
the  important  characters  as  they  moved  about 
the  stage. 

[174] 


IMPORTANT  AIDS  TO  THE  ACTOR'S  ART 

On  account  of  Mrs.  Carter's  coloring,  the 
light  constantly  cast  upon  her  was  a  delicate 
pink  which  tended  to  accentuate  her  beauty  by 
softening  the  sheen  of  her  hair  and  removing 
the  lines  from  her  face.  The  device  was  simple 
enough — after  some  one  had  first  thought  of  it 
— and  ever  afterward  it  has  been  a  blessing 
to  red-haired  actresses.  I  suspect,  too,  that  a 
good  many  matrons  have  taken  advantage 
of  it  in  arranging  the  decorations  of  their 
private  drawing-rooms. 

Any  dramatic  producer  who  works  for  the 
best  artistic  effects  in  the  theatre  must  have  an 
intuitive  knowledge  of  color,  and  he  must  also 
know  his  geography  well.  The  caprices  of 
nature  have  always  had  an  intense  fascination 
for  me.  Nature,  in  each  far-separated  locality 
of  the  earth,  has  given  a  different  appearance 
to  the  sun  and  moon  and  stars  and  sky,  and  to 
the  vegetation  and  fruit  and  snow  and  sea. 
Nature  has  also  given  to  the  peoples  of  these 
differing  localities  their  own  peculiar  esthetic 
sense  of  color.  If  any  one  doubts  that  the 
Japanese  have  a  different  sense  of  the  values 
and  relationships  of  colors  from  our  own,  let 
him  study  their  kimonos  or  their  potteries  or 
their  landscape  paintings. 

I  am  convinced  that  the  esthetic  satisfaction 

which  the  public  found  in  my  production  of 

"The  Darling  of  the  Gods"  was  due  as  much 

to  its  effects  of  color,  light,  and  costumes  as 

12  [175] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

to  its  story  and  acting.  Every  particle  of 
color  used  on  the  stage,  every  ray  of  light  cast 
upon  its  scenes,  was  carefully  calculated  to 
symbolize  its  moods,  interpret  its  meaning, 
and  direct  and  strengthen  its  emotional  appeal. 
I  meant  that  its  lighting  accompaniment  should 
stand  in  the  same  relation  to  it  as  music 
written  by  a  composer  to  express  and  elaborate 
the  thought  and  sentiment  of  a  poem. 

I  foresaw  that  it  would  be  hard  for  my 
audiences  to  step  out  of  the  glare  and  excite- 
ment of  the  New  York  streets  and  enter  at 
once  into  the  mood  and  spirit  of  ancient  Japan. 
To  put  them  in  a  receptive  state  I  began  the 
story  of  the  revolt  of  the  outlawed  Samurai 
and  their  betrayal  by  the  Princess  Yo-San,  to 
save  the  life  of  their  leader.  Prince  Kara, 
her  lover,  by  showing  a  series  of  tableaux 
symbolical  of  the  theme  of  the  play.  I  called 
this  silent  picture  "The  Chase  and  Death  of 
the  Butterfly,"  and  made  it  indicate  what 
was  to  be  the  fate  of  the  heroine.  It  was 
timed  to  picture  Japan  in  the  spring,  when  the 
cherry  blossoms  are  in  half-bloom,  and  it 
showed  the  lapse  of  the  hours  from  the  bright 
sunshine  of  midday  to  the  gloom  of  night — 
suggestive  of  the  passing  of  a  life. 

It  led  to  an  interior  scene  which  I  called 
"The  Feast  of  a  Thousand  Welcomes,"  brill- 
iantly illuminated  by  varicolored  lanterns,  for 
now  I  was  suggesting  to  my  audiences  the 

[176] 


IMPORTANT  AIDS  TO  THE  ACTOR'S  ART 

ceremonials  and  festivities  of  Japanese  life. 
To  increase  the  delicacy  of  the  effect  I  inclosed 
the  stage  in  silk  draperies,  for  the  Japanese, 
more  than  any  people,  are  sensitive  to  soft 
colors. 

Each  chapter  of  the  story  was  enveloped 
in  lights  to  fit  its  moods.  So  I  passed  to  the 
shoji,  or  paper  house,  of  Yo-San,  bathed  in 
moonlight  and  close  to  a  running  brook,  to  be 
indicative  of  the  romance  of  the  unsuspecting 
lovers  as  the  spies  of  Zakkuri,  the  Minister 
of  War,  lay  in  wait  for  Kara  to  arrest  him  as  a 
traitor. 

Thus  the  play  proceeded  to  the  ancient 
sword-room  of  the  relentless  Zakkuri,  who 
now  had  made  Kara  his  captive,  and  was 
endeavoring  to  force  Yo-San  to  betray  the 
hiding-place  of  the  Samurai  as  the  price  for 
saving  him  from  torture.  This  picture  of  the 
War  Minister's  palace  was  vaulted,  high- 
pillared,  gloomy,  and  sinister,  to  suggest  the 
cruel  nature  of  the  man.  At  intervals  the 
doors  leading  to  the  dungeons  below  were 
opened,  lighting  the  scene  with  the  red  glow 
of  the  torture-chamber  to  which  Kara  was 
soon  to  be  sent. 

The  suspense  and  thrill  of  this  scene  were 
gained  solely  by  my  maniptdation  of  lights. 
I  might  have  played  it  in  its  entirety  in  panto- 
mime and  made  it  express  just  as  much.  In 
the  torture  scene  in  Victorien  Sardou's  "La 

[177I 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

Tosca"  a  sense  of  horror  was  communicated 
by  the  sound  of  the  agonized  cries  of  the  suf- 
fering Marie;  but  my  scene  was  all  silence, 
and  I  worked  upon  the  imaginations  of  my 
audiences  by  the  sinister  glare  of  the  torture- 
fires  as  Zakkuri  craftily  wrung  from  Yo-San 
the  confession  which  meant  life  to  Kara,  but 
death  to  his  faithful  band. 

Eventually  came  the  scene  of  the  red 
bamboo  forest  where  the  surrounded  Samurai, 
with  Yo-San,  their  betrayer,  and  Kara,  her 
lover,  commit  honorable  suicide  by  hara-kiri. 
Behind  the  gaunt  trees  I  showed  a  great,  blood- 
red  descending  moon,  symbolical  of  ebbing 
life.  I  shrouded  this  picture  in  deep  shadows 
and  painted  it  in  the  color  tones  of  tragedy. 
My  purpose  was  to  veil  from  the  audiences 
the  actual  incidents  of  the  death  of  the  Samurai, 
which  might  be  repulsive,  but  to  impress  the 
full  meaning  of  the  tragedy  upon  their  im- 
aginations. When  they  had  heard  the  clatter 
of  the  armor  as  the  last  man  fell,  the  moon  had 
simk  out  of  sight,  leaving  the  stage  in  darkness 
and  silence. 

The  tragedy  of  the  play  having  been  com- 
pleted, it  became  necessary  to  represent  the 
ascension  of  Yo-San  to  the  celestial  heavens 
to  meet  the  waiting  Kara,  after  her  condemna- 
tion for  her  betrayal  of  the  Samurai  to  ten 
thousand  years  in  the  Shinto  purgatory.  With 
the   possible   exception   of   certain   scenes   in 

[178] 


IMPORTANT  AIDS  TO  THE  ACTOR'S  ART 

"The  Return  of  Peter  Grimm,"  it  was  the  most 
audacious  scene  I  have  ever  undertaken  to 
represent  on  a  stage.  Literally,  it  meant  that 
a  very  earthly  Yo-San  had  to  be  shown  rising 
skyward  to  meet  a  healthy  Kara  sitting  on  a 
cloud.  If  the  picture  became  for  a  moment 
ridiculous,  if  it  stirred  so  much  as  a  ripple  of 
laughter,  the  dignity  of  the  entire  play  would 
be  lost. 

We  began  by  painting  the  clouds  and  the 
heavens  in  colors,  but  I  could  see  nothing  but 
the  paint.  Each  time  Yo-San  ascended-  she 
reminded  me  of  nothing  so  much  as  Little  Eva 
in  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  It  became  very 
evident  to  me  that  colored  scenery  would  not 
do ;  I  found  I  would  have  to  contrive  the  effect 
by  shadows  and  illusions  gained  by  lights. 

So  I  surrounded  Yo-San  with  white,  unpainted 
canvas,  and  began  experimenting  to  evolve  a 
color  suggestive  of  celestial  blue — not  the  pale 
blue  of  the  sky,  but  the  radiant  blue  of  the 
heavens  above  the  sky,  to  which  no  audience 
could  take  valid  exception,  of  course,  because 
they  had  never  been  to  heaven.  I  wanted 
only  to  excite  their  imagination  and  make 
them  see  in  Yo-San  the  symbol  of  a  liberated 
soul. 

I  secured  the  requisite  shade  of  blue  by 
throwing  an  intense  white  light  through  power- 
ful lenses  covered  with  peculiar  blue  silk. 
When  these  rays  fell  upon  the  white-canvas 

[  179] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

scenery  they  became  partly  absorbed  and 
produced  exactly  the  right  indefinite,  far-away 
effect.  Over  all  was  spread  a  gauze  veil  which 
tended  to  soften  the  scene.  The  figiires  of 
Yo-San  and  Kara  were  held  in  deep  shadows, 
so  deep  that  their  outlines  could  barely  be 
seen  as  they  approached  each  other  with  arms 
outstretched. 

Hundreds  of  experts  came  to  study  this 
final  scene  in  "The  Darling  of  the  Gods," 
and  all  agreed  that  its  ethereal  and  spiritual 
suggestion  was  perfect.  But  what  would  have 
been  the  amazement  of  an  audience  if  the 
special  lights  had  suddenly  been  cut  off  and 
the  ordinary  lights  of  the  stage  turned  on! 
They  would  have  discovered  nothing  more  than 
Blanche  Bates  and  Robert  T.  Haines  dressed 
in  white  and  surrounded  with  strips  of  un- 
painted  cloth. 

The  artistic  success  and  the  popular  appeal 
of  "The  Darling  of  the  Gods"  were  sufficient 
to  justify  my  faith  in  the  use  of  color  and  light 
to  communicate  to  audiences  the  underlying 
symbolism  of  a  play.  Yet  it  is  only  a  part  of 
the  uses  to  which  these  important  adjuncts 
to  every  dramatic  production  may  be  put. 
It  is  equally  within  the  province  of  a  stage 
director  to  employ  the  same  agencies  to  pro- 
duce the  effects  of  realism. 

When  I  produced  "The  Rose  of  the  Rancho," 
the  romantic  drama  which  established  Frances 

[i8o] 


IMPORTANT  AIDS  TO  THE  ACTOR'S  ART 

Starr  as  a  star,  one  of  the  problems  that  I 
had  to  solve  was  how  to  make  the  physical 
discomfort  and  mental  lassitude  caused  by 
the  noon  heat  of  a  midsummer  day  in  southern 
California  seem  actual  to  a  theatre  audience. 
Every  one  who  is  familiar  with  the  climate 
knows  that  at  such  a  time  the  sun  beats  fiercely 
down  upon  the  earth — that  under  its  withering 
rays  no  man  or  beast  can  work. 

Upon  such  a  scene,  representing  a  garden 
outside  a  mission  church,  it  was  necessary  to 
lift  the  curtain  of  "The  Rose  of  the  Rancho." 
The  impression  that  the  audience  would  first 
gain  was  to  establish  the  note  of  languor  which 
was  to  be  constant  through  the  remainder  of 
the  play.  To  be  successful  I  must  impart  to 
them  the  most  vivid  suggestion  possible  of 
stifling  and  enervating  heat. 

I  experimented  a  long  time  without  satis- 
factory results.  I  had  been  using  intense 
white  lights,  but  the  effect  they  produced  upon 
painted  canvas  was  not  what  I  desired.  The 
glare  was  there,  but  not  the  suggestion  of  heat. 
Then  it  occurred  to  me  to  cover  the  lamps 
on  my  stage  with  yellow  silk  and  change  the 
adobe  walls  of  the  church  to  negligible  colors 
which  would  absorb  the  rays.  By  this  means 
I  obtained  exactly  the  effect  of  dry,  hot  sun- 
light. It  seemed  as  if  the  sun  were  actually 
burning  into  the  plaster  walls. 

Into  this  stage  picture  I  brought  a  slumber- 
[181I 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

ing  Spanish  padre,  a  water-girl  half  asleep, 
and  two  drowsy  donkeys  and  their  driver,  who 
was  deep  in  slumber.  For  six  minutes  I  was 
able  to  hold  this  scene  without  a  sound  or 
movement  on  the  stage,  except  an  occasional 
snore  from  the  sleeping  padre  and  a  yawn  or 
two  from  the  stupefied  donkey-driver.  The 
audience  looked  and  listened,  and  literally 
felt  the  heat  of  a  tropical  day.  Many  people 
told  me  the  scene  was  so  real  that  it  became 
actually  uncomfortable. 

Scores  of  Hghting  experts  came  to  study  the 
process  I  used,  and  this  silent  scene  from  "The 
Rose  of  the  Rancho,"  which  preceded  the  first 
spoken  dialogue,  has  since  been  imitated  every- 
where in  the  theatre,  and  often  with  similarly 
realistic  effect.  To  persons  not  familiar  with 
the  use  of  color  on  the  stage  it  probably  did 
not  seem  difficult  to  contrive;  nevertheless, 
its  realism  was  secured  only  after  weeks  of 
patient  experiment  and  through  the  most 
delicate  combinations  of  pigments  and  light. 

Such  effects  as  these,  and  dozens  of  others 
I  might  cite  from  a  list  of  perhaps  twoscore 
productions  I  have  made  in  my  theatres,  are, 
of  course,  more  noticeable  to  the  layman  when 
used  in  romantic  and  fantastic  plays  than  in 
modem  dramas,  in  which  the  scenes  are  laid 
in  interiors  and  among  the  conventional  sur- 
roimdings  of  contemporaneous,  every-day  life. 
By   the  broader,   more   vivid   stage   pictures 

1 182] 


IMPORTANT  AIDS  TO  THE  ACTOR'S  ART 

the  eye  is  consciously  assailed.  But  there  are 
also  thousands  of  chances  for  delicate  strokes 
of  illiunination  in  a  well-managed  modern  play 
which  neither  audience  nor  critic  is  likely  to 
notice,  yet  which  work  unconsciously  upon  the 
feelings  and  imagination. 

To  select  the  right  opportunities  for  their 
use,  to  know  how  to  contrive  them,  and  at  the 
same  time  how  to  conceal  them,  is  what  makes 
the  profession  of  the  stage  director  so  difficult. 
Not  only  should  he  have  a  comprehensive 
knowledge  of  all  the  arts,  he  must  understand 
psychology  and  the  physical  sciences  besides. 
In  the  intricate  process  of  producing  a  play 
he  must  be  the  translator  of  its  moods,  and 
supply  the  medium  by  which  they  are  trans- 
mitted to  audiences. 


Ill 

In  the  production  of  any  play  the  laymen 
who  compose  a  theatre  audience  go  on  the 
assimiption  that  the  perfect  interpretation  of 
the  work  as  it  comes  from  the  dramatist's  pen 
depends  upon  the  actors  whose  business  is  it  to 
portray  the  distinguishing  peculiarities  of  the 
characters  and  to  speak  the  lines  written  for 
them,  in  accordance  with  the  stage  director's 
conception  of  their  meaning.  If  this  were  all 
there  is  to  the  making  of  a  dramatic  pro- 
duction,  the  stage  director's  task  would  be 

1 183] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

comparatively  simple.  It  is  also  his  important 
business  to  read  and  interpret  the  invisible 
writing  expressed  in  moods  which  lie  between 
the  lines  of  the  play. 

By  subtle  use  of  light,  and  without  alter- 
ing so  much  as  a  word  of  the  dramatist's  text, 
it  is  possible  sometimes  to  change  completely 
the  impression  which  a  whole  scene  conveys. 
Often  upon  such  a  change  may  depend  the 
fate  of  the  play  itself.  The  success  of  Her- 
mann Bahr's  comedy,  "The  Concert,"  when 
I  produced  it  in  America,  contrasted  with  its 
quick  failure  when  subsequently  it  was  acted 
in  London,  is  an  instance  that  shows  the 
responsibility  which  rests  upon  the  stage 
director.  In  its  case  the  fortunes  of  the  whole 
production  depended  upon  the  discreet  hand- 
ling of  a  single  scene  that  did  not  require 
more  than  ten  minutes  to  present. 

This  play,  by  a  prominent  Austrian  drama- 
tist, is  the  story  of  the  infatuation  of  a  weak, 
sentimental,  and  highly  romantic  yoimg  wom- 
an, the  wife  of  a  phlegmatic  but  indulgent 
husband,  for  her  music- teacher.  He  is  a 
volatile  and  temperamental  genius  of  the 
piano,  a  creature  of  uncontrollable  impulses, 
but  his  sensible  and  devoted  wife  thoroughly 
understands  him.  The  adoration  of  his  head- 
strong pupil  leads  her  to  arrange  an  elopement, 
and  she  runs  away  with  him  to  his  bungalow 
in  the  Cat  skills,  with  rosy  visions  of  perfect  bliss. 

[184] 


IMPORTANT  AIDS  TO  THE  ACTOR'S  ART 

Although  the  play  is  a  comedy,  this  scene 
in  the  bungalow,  which  forms  the  second  act, 
is  really  a  domestic  tragedy.  Into  it  presently 
enters  the  deserted  husband  and  also  the  wife 
of  the  runaway  musician.  To  cure  them  of 
their  infatuation,  these  two  pretend  that  they, 
too,  have  fallen  in  love  and  aire  content  with 
the  course  of  events. 

As  the  scene  was  to  end  in  reconciliation,  it 
became  necessary  at  any  cost  to  preserve  the 
audience's  sympathy  for  the  eloping  wife. 
To  accomplish  this  purpose  I  raised  the  curtain 
upon  an  afternoon  scene,  to  suggest  the  idea 
of  frivolity.  In  the  full  light  of  day  the  wife 
would  be  able  to  resist  the  caresses  of  her 
amorous  music-teacher  and  to  realize  the 
indiscretion  into  which  she  had  plunged  her- 
self. While  the  sun  still  shone,  she  was  able 
to  hold  herself  in  check.  But  as  the  shadow 
lengthened  and  twilight  fell,  romantic  impulse 
overcame  her  and  her  self-control  relaxed. 
Now  was  approaching  the  danger  hour.  As 
the  musician  sat  at  the  piano  and  strummed 
on  the  keys,  the  door  gradually  opened  and  she 
stealthily  entered,  showering  flowers  over  him 
in  the  dim  light  and  embracing  him  as  he 
played.  Such  a  scene  could  have  been  acted 
only  in  the  twilight  and  under  the  romantic 
mood  such  an  hour  invoked.  If  it  had 
been  shown  in  the  broad  light  of  day,  the 
situation  would  have  been  impossible  for  the 

[185] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

woman  and  instinctively  offensive  to  the 
audience. 

With  the  unexpected  arrival  of  the  other  pair 
I  caused  the  caretaker  of  the  bungalow  to 
enter  and  turn  up  the  lights.  Then  each  of 
the  four  could  distinctly  see  the  faces  of  the 
others.  The  hour  for  explanations  had  come 
and  the  spell  of  romance  was  removed  from 
the  situation.  The  understanding  wife  of  the 
musician  meanwhile  moved  quietly  around  the 
room,  arranging  the  supper  and  fixing  the  chair 
and  pillows  for  his  comfort.  Then  she  pro- 
posed their  customary^  game  of  checkers,  and, 
as  they  played,  the  other  woman  sat  at  the 
window,  neglected  and  forgotten,  in  the  cold 
gray  of  the  moonlight  which  suggested  that 
she  had  passed  out  of  his  life. 

The  lighting  treatment  of  this  act  in  "The 
Concert"  brought  the  note  of  genuine  romance 
into  the  play  and  saved  it  from  seeming  to  be 
tawdry  and  merely  scandalous.  When  it  was 
acted  in  London  in  the  full  light  of  day  the 
act  was  regarded  as  vulgar,  and  the  recon- 
ciliation with  which  it  ended  was  judged  to  be 
inconsistent  with  what  had  gone  before.  The 
result  was  that  there  it  ran  only  eight  per- 
formances, while  at  my  theatre  in  New  York 
it  continued  through  an  entire  season  without 
at  any  time  provoking  criticism  on  the  score 
of  vulgar  suggestiveness. 

Those  who  have  seen  my  more  recent  pro- 
[186I 


IMPORTANT  AIDS  TO  THE  ACTOR'S  ART 

duction  of  "The  Boomerang"  may  not  have 
realized  how  important  to  its  second  act  is  the 
handling  of  the  lights  in  the  sitting-room, 
not  only  to  emphasize  moods,  but  also  to 
change  at  different  moments  the  appearance 
of  the  scene,  and  thus  control  the  attention 
of  the  audience.  If  these  expedients  escaped 
notice  altogether,  they  were  the  more  success- 
ful because  it  was  my  intention  that  their 
effect  should  be  unconsciously  felt. 

It  was  one  of  the  most  perplexing  scenes  I 
have  ever  directed,  for  there  were  no  very 
strong  situations  to  work  with,  and  the  dia- 
logue could  not  be  relied  upon  alone  to  carry 
it  along.  Besides,  it  practically  involved  the 
introduction  of  a  new  plot.  The  story  of  the 
lovesick  youth  was  temporarily  thrust  aside, 
in  order  to  bring  in  the  budding  romance  of 
the  physician  and  nurse — the  boomerang  of 
the  physician's  formula  of  treating  his  patient 
which  was  to  recoil  upon  himself. 

How  to  hold  the  attention  of  the  audience 
for  twenty-five  minutes  while  the  characters 
merely  sat  and  talked  was  the  problem  which 
I  had  to  solve.  By  acting  the  scene  with  the 
lights  up  I  found  I  could  make  scarcely  any 
impression  at  all.  Then  I  decided  to  vary  the 
lights  and  have  them  enforce  the  moods  of 
the  characters.  So  the  curtain  was  lifted 
upon  a  room  dimly  lit,  save  for  a  log  burning 
in  the  fireplace  and  a  lamp  casting  its  rays 

1 187] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

upon  a  card-table  where  the  niirse  sat.  She 
was  trying  to  keep  the  boy's  thoughts  fixed 
upon  the  game  to  help  him  forget  the  girl 
with  whom  he  was  foolishly  infatuated.  On 
the  distant  side  of  the  room,  and  under  another 
lamp,  the  boy's  mother  sat  at  her  sewing,  her 
manner  betraying  always  her  solicitude  for 
him.  In  this  way  I  was  able  to  make  the 
scene  indicate  something  that  was  not  in  the 
dialogue.  It  emphasized  a  mood.  Pictorially 
it  was  good,  and  psychologically  it  was  right, 
because  it  was  the  truth. 

As  the  story  progressed  into  the  physician 
and  nurse's  romance,  I  found  a  pretext  for 
changing  the  lights  and  varying  the  illiunina- 
tion  on  the  faces  of  the  characters.  To  ex- 
amine her  chart  and  show  the  boy  some  pict- 
ures, the  nurse  touched  a  button  and  turned 
on  a  chandelier,  permitting  what  followed  to  be 
played  under  altered  illumination,  with  a  cor- 
responding altered  effect  upon  the  audience. 
At  last  the  stand-lamps  in  the  room  were  put 
out  altogether  and  the  lights  at  the  back  were 
turned  up,  again  varying  the  appearance  of  the 
scene  and  unconsciously  introducing  another 
mood.  In  this  manner  I  kept  the  attention 
of  the  audience  always  in  control  while  ac- 
quainting them  with  the  undramatic  details 
of  the  story  which  were  needed  for  the  play's 
later  development.  Had  the  scene  been  per- 
mitted to  unfold  without  these  changes  and 

[188] 


IMPORTANT  AIDS  TO  THE  ACTOR'S  ART 

gradations  of  light  to  fit  its  moods,  a  vital 
though  undramatic  half-hour  in  the  middle 
of  "The  Boomerang"  would  possibly  have 
been  disclosed  to  be  somewhat  monotonous, 
and  the  play  might  not  have  lasted,  as  it  did, 
through  more  than  a  year's  unbroken  suc- 
cession of  performances  at  my  theatre. 

Any  play  worth  producing  at  all  is  entitled 
to  the  most  perfect  interpretation  that  can  be 
secured  for  it.  Any  means  that  aids  the 
audience's  grasp  and  understanding  of  it,  or 
that  appeals  to  the  esthetic  sense,  is  useful 
and  legitimate  in  the  theatre — provided  the 
stage  director  never  loses  sight  of  the  fact 
that,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  the  play  itself 
is  the  main  thing,  that  the  actors  are  always 
the  chief  instruments  through  which  the  story 
is  to  be  told,  and  that  the  scene  is  only 
a  background  against  which  the  dramatist's 
work  is  being  projected. 

If  for  however  brief  a  time  scenery,  acces- 
sories, or  any  of  the  details  of  the  environment, 
no  matter  how  clever  they  be  in  themselves, 
distract  the  audience's  attention  from  the 
play  proper  or  cease  to  be  other  than  mere 
assisting  agencies,  their  value  is  destroyed 
and  they  become  more  a  hindrance  than  an 
aid  and,  consequently,  an  inartistic  blunder. 
One  must  remember  that  in  nature  the  glory 
and  beauty  of  the  stars  are  never  obliterated 
by  the  background  of  the  sky. 

[189] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

In  arranging  a  production  I  permit  the  play 
to  establish  the  environment  in  which  it  is  to 
be  set.  Its  theme — and  this  alone — must  be 
the  basis  for  everything  else  that  follows. 
The  color  schemes  must  be  chosen  to  agree 
with  it,  in  the  same  sense  that  the  actors  must 
be  selected  with  regard  to  their  fitness  for 
the  characters.  As  I  would  not  begin  the 
actual  work  of  mounting  a  play  without  first 
having  settled  upon  its  cast,  I  also  try  to  work 
out  every  essential  detail  of  scenery,  light,  and 
costumes  before  I  set  about  the  practical  work 
of  the  production  itself. 

In  selecting  my  actors  I  even  take  into  con- 
sideration their  complexion  and  the  color  of 
their  hair.  If  there  are  several  girls  or  boys 
in  a  family,  I  try  to  have  the  girls  resemble 
the  mother  and  the  boys  look  like  the  father. 
Such  seemingly  trivial  details  as  these  are 
not  always  detected  by  the  theatregoer,  but 
the  general  effect  of  the  play  is,  after  all, 
greatly  aided  by  them.  In  arranging  the 
groupings  on  the  stage  I  prefer,  if  possible, 
not  to  place  two  pronounced  brunettes  to- 
gether, or  two  pronounced  blondes. 

Most  of  all,  I  endeavor  always  to  protect  the 
appearance  of  the  women  on  my  stage.  The 
men  do  not  matter  so  much,  but  the  women 
should  be  given  the  benefit  of  every  possible 
lighting  effect.  For  instance,  I  would  not 
throw  on  the  features  of  a  brunette  the  same 

[  190] 


IMPORTANT  AIDS  TO  THE  ACTOR'S  ART 

quality  of  light  that  I  would  put  on  a  blonde. 
In  working  out  the  color  and  lighting  details 
of  every  production  the  careful  stage  director 
must  always  keep  in  consideration  their  effect 
upon  the  star;  he  may  believe  that  he  is  not 
influenced  by  them;  but  he  is,  nevertheless. 
Ordinarily  I  decide  upon  all  matters  of 
costumes  myself,  although  in  regard  to  the 
leading  women  in  my  companies  I  take  care, 
as  far  as  possible,  to  defer  to  their  personal 
tastes.  In  the  end,  the  costumes  must  har- 
monize with  the  predominating  color  scheme 
of  the  stage.  In  order  to  keep  in  my  own 
complete  control  this  important  detail  of  a 
dramatic  production,  I  provide  all  the  cloth- 
ing worn  by  the  people  in  my  companies. 
It  is  the  ordinary  practice,  in  the  case  of  fancy 
costtmies,  for  the  producer  to  supply  them, 
but  so-called  modern  clothing  is  expected  to 
be  furnished  by  the  actors  themselves.  But 
I  have  foimd  it  advisable  to  regulate  every 
detail  which  enters  into  productions  on  my 
stages,  and  the  advantage  I  gain  by  such 
caution  greatly  outweighs  the  expense. 

It  is  much  easier  to  provide  the  wardrobe 
for  a  historical  or  costiune  play  than  for  a 
drama  of  contemporaneous  social  life.  In 
the  former  class  of  plays  the  costimie  designer 
can  be  guided  by  the  descriptions  of  the  modes 
of  the  period  in  which  the  story  is  laid,  and  he 
also  has  the  works  of  famous  painters  to  assist 
13  [191] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

him.  Moreover,  in  such  productions  the  vivid 
coloring  of  the  costumes  can  more  readily 
be  made  a  part  of  the  general  color  scheme 
of  the  scenes.  It  is  easy  to  see  that,  in  plays 
which  are  purely  fantastic,  the  imagination 
and  artistic  perceptions  of  the  costimie  de- 
signer have  their  fullest  sweep. 

But  in  costuming  a  modern  play  many 
difficulties  arise,  because  it  is  necessary  always 
to  give  heed  to  the  fashions  of  the  passing 
hour,  which  are  whimsical  and  subject  to  con- 
stant change.  I  always  hold  to  one  method. 
First,  after  consultation  with  my  actors  and 
scene-painters,  I  settle  upon  the  general  color 
effects  I  intend  to  use.  Then  I  instruct  my 
actors  and  actresses  to  imagine  themselves 
to  be  in  the  stations  in  life  which  their  char- 
acters represent,  and  to  go  for  their  ward- 
robe to  such  places  as  these  persons  would  be 
likely  to  go.  If  they  are  to  appear  in  a  play 
of  polite  social  life,  I  send  them  to  the  best 
Fifth  Avenue  modistes  and  tailors.  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  they  belong  to  a  humbler 
stratum  in  life,  I  instruct  them  to  observe  such 
economy  and  tastes  as  these  humbler  people 
would  be  likely  to  use. 

For  instance,  all  the  costumes  in  "The 
Boomerang"  were  bought  in  the  smartest 
up-town  shops  in  New  York,  while  the  ward- 
robe used  in  "The  Music  Master" — all  except 
David  Warfield's  seedy  frock-coat — came  from 

[  192] 


IMPORTANT  AIDS  TO  THE  ACTOR'S  ART 

the  ready-made  and  second-hand  clothing- 
stores  of  the  East  Side.  The  old  frock-coat 
which  Mr.  Warfield  always  has  worn  when  he 
has  appeared  as  Anton  von  Barwig  was  bought 
from  a  man  who  had  worn  it  at  his  wedding 
twenty  years  before  the  production  of  the 
play.  Mr.  Warfield  is  wearing  it  still,  not- 
withstanding that  "The  Music  Master"  was 
first  acted  fifteen  years  ago. 

When  I  produced  "The  Darling  of  the  Gods'* 
I  sent  to  Japan  for  the  costumes  of  my  prin- 
cipal actors,  as  well  as  for  the  other  parapher- 
nalia of  its  scenes.  When  I  presented  "Du 
Barry"  I  sent  a  commissioner  to  France, 
where  he  purchased  the  rich  fabrics  and  had 
them  dyed  to  reproduce  exactly  the  dresses 
and  styles  of  the  Court  of  Louis  XV,  as  shown 
by  portraits  painted  during  that  period. 

The  problem  of  obtaining  appropriate  cos- 
tumes, however,  varies  with  every  play.  I 
have  dimifounded  a  tramp  by  asking  him  to 
exchange  the  coat  on  his  back  for  a  new  one. 
Sometimes  a  poor  girl  of  the  street  has  attracted 
my  attention  because  she  was  like  a  character 
I  had  in  mind.  I  have  sent  for  her  and  bought 
her  dress,  hat,  shoes,  and  stockings.  My 
wardrobe  people  have  rummaged  for  weeks 
through  pawnshops  and  second-hand  stores 
to  find  a  vest  or  some  other  article  of  apparel 
appropriate  to  an  eccentric  character  in  one 
of  my  plays.     From  fashionable  dressmakers 

[  193] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

and  tailors  have  come  bills  that  would  stagger 
a  rich  society  woman. 

But  all  these  adjuncts  of  lighting,  color,  and 
costumes,  however  useful  they  may  be,  and 
however  pleasing  to  an  audience,  really  mark 
the  danger-point  of  a  dramatic  production. 
No  other  worker  in  the  American  theatre  has 
given  so  much  time  and  energy  to  perfecting 
them  as  I ;  nevertheless,  I  count  them  as  valu- 
able only  when  they  are  held  subordinate  to 
the  play  and  the  acting.  The  stage  always 
accompUshes  more  through  the  ability  of  its 
actors  than  through  the  genius  of  its  scenic 
artists  and  electrical  experts.  And  if  the 
theatre  in  this  country  now  is  in  a  state  of 
decline,  it  is  because  too  much  attention  is 
being  paid  to  stage  decoration,  important  as 
it  is  when  held  in  its  proper  place,  and  too 
little  to  the  work  of  the  players. 

It  is  at  once  significant  and  deplorable  that 
our  scenic  artists  study  continually,  our  actors 
seldom.  And  it  is  a  fact  that,  except  in  the 
rarest  cases,  the  more  indifferent  the  quality 
of  the  acting  the  more  elaborate  is  likely  to 
be  the  surroundings  in  which  it  is  found.  If 
the  artistic  success  of  a  play  depended  prin- 
cipally upon  its  scenery  and  decorations,  any 
one  who  could  afford  to  engage  a  good  painter 
might  become  a  dramatic  producer  almost 
overnight.  And  if  this  be  the  end  sought  by 
dramatic  art,  then  we  have  had  no  past  theatre. 

[  194] 


IMPORTANT  AIDS  TO  THE  ACTOR'S  ART 

Shakespeare  would  doubtless  have  utilized 
every  accessory  and  aid  known  to  our  modem 
stage,  yet  the  greatness  of  his  dramatic  genius 
was  established  without  them. 

Only  when  the  stage  director  is  resolved 
that  the  play  shall  stand  first  in  importance 
in  a  theatre  production  can  he  safely  employ 
the  countless  pictorial  aids  which  contribute 
to  its  effect  and  its  appeal.  Only  when  he 
relies  upon  his  actors  as  the  chief  means  of  its 
interpretation  should  he  venture  upon  those 
other  agencies  which  help  to  bring  it  into 
closer  relation  with  life  and  natiu*e. 

In  short,  to  paraphrase  Hamlet's  words,  the 
play  must  always  be  the  thing,  whether  to 
stir  the  esthetic  impulse  of  the  public  or  to 
catch  the  conscience  of  the  king. 


Chapter  VI 

THE    DRAMA'S    FLICKERING    BOGY 
THE   MOVIES 


MOTION  pictures  have  stirred  a  great 
amount  of  unreasonable  antipathy  among 
people  who  have  chosen  the  spoken  drama 
as  the  field  of  their  artistic  work,  and  much 
of  it,  I  suspect,  has  been  caused  by  two  very 
human  weaknesses — selfishness  and  fear. 

Since  the  process  of  photographing  objects 
in  motion  was  discovered  a  little  less  than 
twenty-five  years  ago,  and  a  way  was  found, 
shortly  afterward,  to  exhibit  them  on  a  screen 
before  large  assemblages,  an  additional  amuse- 
ment has  been  brought  into  a  world  in  which 
there  is  so  much  care,  anxiety,  and  distress 
that  it  is  entitled  to  all  the  relaxation  it  can 
get.  If  for  no  better  reason  than  this,  motion 
pictures   have   justified   themselves,   and   any 


Note. — The  growth  of  the  motion  picture  has  been  rapid  and, 
consequently,  the  trend  of  its  future  development  is  difficult  to 
foretell.  Therefore  these  comments  are  restricted  to  what  it 
has  accomplished  as  a  medium  of  popular  entertainment  up  to 
1919. — David  Belasco. 

[196] 


THE   DRAMA'S   FLICKERING   BOGY 

one  who  talks  derisively  against  them  is  making 
a  very  big  mistake. 

The  most  frequent  objection  to  them  is 
that  they  have  come  to  be  regarded  in  the 
popiilar  mind  as  a  rival  of  the  regular  theatre, 
by  supplying  an  acceptable  substitute  for 
the  spoken  and  acted  play  at  a  price  so  low 
that  the  older  stage  is  unable  to  compete  with 
them. 

There  has  never  been  a  time  in  the  theatre's 
history  when  it  has  not  been  compelled  to 
meet  the  rivalry  of  some  newly  arisen  form  of 
entertainment.  Such  rivals  in  the  past,  how- 
ever, have  been  comparatively  short-lived, 
while  the  motion  pictures  have  undoubtedly 
come  to  stay.  So  the  problem  they  have 
raised  in  their  relation  to  the  established  the- 
atre has  caused  more  speculation  and  provoked 
more  controversy  than  any  other  that  the 
stage  has  had  to  deal  with  before.  Of  the 
fear  in  which  they  are  held  by  many  people 
of  the  theatre  I  find  constant  evidence,  for  I 
am  continually  being  asked  whether  I  see  in 
their  enormous  popularity  either  a  present 
menace  to  the  real  art  of  the  stage  or  a  future 
dangerous  competitor  which  may  eventually 
throttle  it  and  take  its  place 

The  reason  for  all  this  solicitude  on  the  part 
of  the  friends  of  the  old  dramatic  art  can  be 
at  least  partly  explained.  From  their  begin- 
ning, motion  pictures  have  been  attempting 

[  197] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

not  only  to  compete  with  the  theatre,  which 
came  into  existence  as  the  home  of  drama, 
but  even  to  take  actual  possession  of  it.  In- 
terest in  them,  meanwhile,  has  grown  until 
it  seems  as  if  a  quarter  of  the  world  were  now 
engrossed  in  the  films. 

Another  quarter,  if  statistics  be  reliable, 
appears  to  be  interested,  either  directly  or  in- 
directly— professionally  or  financially — in  the 
manufacture  of  them.  If  "all  the  world's  a 
stage"  in  the  classic  sense,  then  all  the  earth 
has  been  turned  into  a  motion-picture  studio, 
according  to  the  prevailing  impression. 

The  question  of  the  relation  of  the  picture 
shows  to  the  older  art  of  the  theatre  has  never 
given  me  much  concern.  I  have  watched, 
though,  with  friendly  and  lively  interest  their 
onward  sweep  since  the  time  of  the  Edison 
kinetoscope,  in  1893,  which,  I  believe,  was 
their  first  practical  demonstration;  and  by 
close  observation  of  their  development  I  have 
sometimes  tried  to  decide  in  my  own  mind  the 
artistic  ends  they  may  be  made  to  serve. 
Now,  after  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  centiuy,  I 
am  still  quite  as  firmly  convinced  as  I  ever 
have  been  that  the  fine  art  of  the  spoken  drama, 
which  has  come  to  us  through  the  centuries, 
rests  upon  a  much  less  stable  foundation  than 
I  would  be  willing  to  admit  if  it  is  to  be  dan- 
gerously menaced,  much  less  undone,  by  this 
additional  form  of  amusement. 

[198] 


THE  DRAMA'S  FLICKERING  BOGY 

Motion  pictures  have  not  crossed,  nor  do 
they  threaten  to  cross,  the  path  of  real  drama, 
although  as  a  certain  kind  of  public  entertain- 
ment they  have  come  into  commercial  com- 
petition with  the  theatre. 

But  competition  is  no  new  experience  for 
the  theatre.  The  drama  of  the  Greeks  and 
Romans  had  to  compete  with  the  sports  and 
pageantry  of  the  arena  for  its  share  of  the 
public's  interest.  In  the  seventeenth  century 
the  rough  pastimes  of  bear-baiting  and  cock- 
fighting  claimed  to  so  great  an  extent  the 
attention  of  the  London  populace,  which  might 
have  witnessed  Shakespeare's  plays,  that  laws 
had  to  be  enacted  for  the  theatre's  protection. 

Similar  conditions  have  held  true  right  up 
to  the  present  time.  I  can  easily  recall  when 
"The  Black  Crook"  was  so  hugely  popular 
in  New  York  that  there  were  fears  that  the 
regular  drama  might  be  superseded.  "The 
Black  Crook"  was  the  forerunner  of  our  present 
elaborately  produced  musical  comedies  which 
now  monopolize  a  large  share  of  every  the- 
atrical season;  but  they  have  done  no  harm 
to  the  legitimate  stage. 

All  inferior  forms  of  theatrical  amusement 
have  been  hard  hit  by  the  motion  pictures, 
for  the  very  good  reason  that  the  pictures 
often  provide  more  acceptable  entertainment 
at  a  cheaper  price.  They  have  completely 
swallowed  up  minstrelsy  and  practically  driven 

1 199] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS   STAGE  DOOR 

out  of  existence  the  cheap  stock  companies 
which  have  been  so  innocent  of  all  artistic 
purpose  in  late  years  that  they  have,  with  few 
exceptions,  not  been  stock  companies  at  all. 

Vaudeville,  at  the  outset,  attempted  to 
make  use  of  the  screens,  but  gradually  it  has 
become  their  victim.  Managers  who  try  to 
run  their  theatres  after  the  manner  of  co- 
operative grocery-stores  complain  that  the 
picture  shows  have  stolen  their  gallery  audi- 
ences— which,  however,  is  only  one  more 
evidence  that  the  public  is  not  interested  in 
plays  written  and  produced  by  machine  or 
wholesale  methods. 

But  the  legitimately  conducted  playhouse, 
in  which  drama  is  respected  as  an  art,  has 
not  been  affected  at  all,  for  the  reason  that 
motion  pictures  have  drawn  a  public  which 
was  not  previously  a  dependable  support 
of  the  stage.  I  am  not  conscious  that  my  own 
theatre  has  in  any  way  been  molested  by  the 
new  conditions,  or  by  the  competition  which 
the  moving  pictures  have  created,  so  far  as 
its  box-office  is  concerned.  It  is,  of  course, 
sensitive  to  dull  times,  and  it  is  affected  during 
periods  of  excitement,  but  I  have  always  found 
that  the  public  will  never  ignore  a  good  play. 

If  any  production  that  I  may  make  contains 
elements  of  real  interest  to  theatregoers,  I 
need  have  no  fears  of  outside  influences  or 
competition  of  any  kind.     There  is  no  such 

[  200  ] 


THE  DRAMA'S  FLICKERING  BOGY 

thing  as  a  menace  to  the  spoken  drama  when 
it  is  actually  worthy  of  attention.  It  is  an 
imperishable  art  and  it  stands  alone. 

It  is  unfair  to  deprecate  all  motion  pictures 
for  the  reason  that  they  sometimes  pretend  to 
be  more  than  they  can  ever  hope  to  be.  I 
know  of  no  invention,  except  printing,  which 
serves  a  more  useful  educational  purpose. 
The  vivid  scenes  of  the  battle-fronts  of  the 
Eiiropean  War  which  they  have  been  supply- 
ing to  the  world  of  to-day,  and  will  preserve 
for  the  world  of  the  future,  completely  establish 
their  inestimable  value.  In  this  field  they  are 
outdistancing  both  the  daily  press  and  the 
magazines.  They  have  robbed  the  war  cor- 
respondent of  his  romantic  and  adventurous 
vocation,  and  literally  placed  the  whole  world 
under  fire  in  the  trenches. 

Due  to  motion  pictures,  also,  the  study  of 
geography  in  the  school-room  is  no  longer  dry 
nor  cold.  Every  remote  wonder  of  the  world 
has  become  accessible,  through  them,  to  him 
who  travels  only  in  a  trolley-car.  The  Scott 
and  Shackleton  Antarctic  films  planted  the 
South  Pole  on  Broadway.  The  Rainey  pict- 
ures of  African  jungle  life  narrowed  to  a  few 
feet  the  distance  which  separates  us  from  the 
equator.  It  is  no  longer  necessary  to  accept 
these  far-away  regions  on  faith  through  the 
mediiun  of  the  printed  text. 

Equally  marvelous,  and  even  more  valuable- 

[  20I  1 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

is  the  camera's  aid  to  science.  It  records 
every  detail  of  the  most  compHcated  surgical 
operations.  By  the  simple  process  of  adjust- 
ing a  microscope  to  its  lens,  the  infinitesimal 
bacteria  of  unseen  nature  become  immediately 
visible  in  living,  moving  forms  to  the  naked 
eye.  Think  of  an  invention  by  which  we  may 
watch  a  flower  unfold  from  its  bulb,  or  trace 
the  development  of  a  butterfly  from  its  chrys- 
alis! 

But  wonderful  as  these  feats  of  the  camera 
are,  they  deal  only  with  the  outward  mani- 
festations of  things.  When  motion  pictures 
attempt  to  go  farther  and  penetrate  beneath 
the  surface  of  life  in  the  effort  to  analyze  and 
interpret  it,  they  at  once  establish  their  limita- 
tion. Right  here  is  drawn  the  line  of  division 
which  must  always  separate  the  screen  from 
the  stage  and  define  the  difference  between 
the  picture  show  and  the  acted  and  spoken 
play.^ 

This  difference  between  the  two  mediimis 
is  the  difference  between  surface  and  spirit. 
Both  of  them  may  have  an  esthetic  purpose, 
but  if  dramatic  art  is  anything  at  all,  and  if 
it  is  worthy  of  being  perpetuated,  the  reason 
is  that  it  is,  above  everything  else — far  above 
the  mere  purpose  of  supplying  pleasurable 
entertainment — an  interpretative  art  which 
portrays  the  soul  of  life.  The  motion-picture 
play,  on  the  other  hand,  has  accomplished  all 

[  202  ] 


THE  DRAMA'S  FLICKERING  BOGY 

of  which  it  is  capable  when  it  has  reproduced 
the  surface  of  life;  it  registers  itself  in  silent 
images  and  shadows,  while  the  great  vitalizing 
forces  of  dramatic  art  are  living  personality 
and  the  sound  of  the  human  voice. 

This  same  living,  tangible  personality,  which 
gives  the  spoken  and  acted  drama  its  subtle 
power  over  the  human  emotions,  is  no  less  the 
secret  of  the  strength  of  nations.  It  was  the 
actual,  living  personality — first  that  of  Keren- 
sky  and  later  that  of  Lenine  —  that  was  the 
chief  driving  influence  of  two  successive  stages 
of  the  Russian  Revolution.  The  real  himian 
and  personal  force  of  David  Lloyd  George 
unified  the  British  Empire  in  its  struggle  for 
the  world's  democracy.  These  examples  show 
exactly  what  I  mean  and  tell  the  whole  story  of 
the  difference  between  motion  pictures  and  the 
real  drama  in  their  effect  upon  the  emotions. 
Does  any  one  believe  that  a  picture  of  Lloyd 
George,  silently  thrown  upon  a  screen,  could 
inspire  great  armies  to  face  death? 

The  relation  which  the  photograph  bears 
to  the  painted  portrait  also  helps  to  define 
the  distinction  I  make  between  the  motion- 
picture  play  and  the  acted  drama.  A  por- 
trait, through  the  interpretative  genius  of  the 
painter,  reveals  the  soul  of  its  subject.  The 
photograph  can  only  indicate  the  subject's 
physical  peculiarities. 

No  doubt  it  was  thought  that  a  cheap  means 
[203  ] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

had  been  found  to  replace  the  art  of  the  por- 
trait-painter when  Daguerre,  during  the  first 
third  of  the  last  centirry,  discovered  the  process 
of  photographing  a  posed  image  on  silver- 
plated  copper.  Since  then  the  science  of 
photography  has  made  astounding  advances. 
The  picture,  which  once  required  several  hours 
to  produce,  can  now  be  made  in  the  two- 
hiuidred- and -fiftieth  part  of  a  second.  Yet 
photography  has  not  encroached  upon  the  art 
of  portrait-painting,  and  the  painter  is  des- 
tined always  to  remain  supreme. 

From  the  time  of  its  invention  the  hungry 
eye  of  the  motion-picture  camera  has  looked 
greedily  upon  the  art  of  the  stage.  Its  very 
earliest  feat  was  to  reproduce  the  movements 
of  a  dancing-girl.  The  theatre,  on  account  of 
its  architectural  arrangement,  was  instantly 
seized  as  a  convenient  place  for  moving-picture 
exhibitions. 

Also,  from  their  beginning,  the  effort  has 
been  to  exploit  motion  pictures  commercially 
as  a  pendant  of  the  drama.  Acted  plays  were 
appropriated  because  they  furnished  ready- 
made  material  for  screen  shows.  Trained  per- 
formers of  the  theatre  became  valuable  to  the 
operators  of  the  films  because  it  was  profitable 
to  trade  upon  their  well -advertised  reputations 
before  a  new  public.  Without  the  exertion  of 
creative  effort,  plots  of  popular  novels  could 
be  worked  over  into  scenarios. 

[204] 


THE  DRAMA'S   FLICKERING  BOGY 

Thus,  from  their  very  outset,  except  when 
they  have  been  devoted  to  reproducing  scenes 
from  nature,  motion  pictures  have  been  a 
parasite  feeding  upon  the  arts  of  the  theatre. 
Far  from  attempting  to  invent  their  own 
medium  of  expression,  they  have  been  content 
either  to  imitate  or  to  borrow.  These  and 
many  other  circumstances  have  tended  to 
establish  in  the  public  mind  a  false  relation- 
ship between  the  stage  and  the  screen. 

If  the  motion  pictures  ever  hope  to  chal- 
lenge the  regular  drama  seriously,  they  must 
evolve  some  form  of  art  distinctly  their  own, 
and  educate  their  performers  in  an  entirely 
new  technique.  They  cannot  always  be  satis- 
fied with  the  cast-offs  of  the  older  theatre. 

Up  to  the  present  time  no  writer  has  been 
found  who  can  apply  life  to  a  scenario  in  such 
a  way  that  it  can  be  silently  interpreted  by 
actors  who  have  been  trained  to  the  methods 
of  the  spoken  drama.  I  have  often  been  told 
that  performing  before  the  camera  is  a  good 
experience  for  our  actors;  but  that  is  a  mis- 
taken notion,  for  the  reason  that  the  spoken 
dialogue  of  a  regular  play  sets  in  motion  the 
mental  processes  in  the  imagined  characters 
which  are  translated  to  an  audience  in  the 
players*  actions. 

For  instance,  the  motion-picture  performer 
is  told  by  his  director  to  assimie  the  appearance 
and  pose  of  thinking.     But  just  what  shall 

[205] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE   DOOR 

he  be  thinking  about?  In  a  spoken  drama 
that  mental  action  would  be  the  spontaneous 
result  of  the  situation  in  which  the  character 
is  placed,  plus  the  equally  spontaneous  effect 
of  what  the  other  characters  on  the  stage  are 
saying  and  doing.  Before  the  camera,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  player  has  nothing  to  think 
about  except  the  director's  instructions.  The 
result  of  such  a  process  can  be  only  to  make  the 
poser  artificial,  unnatural,  and  mechanical, 
and  this  is  precisely  the  fault  I  detect  in  the 
acting  of  even  the  best  directed  motion-picture 
plays. 

I  do  not  mean  that  there  is  nothing  in 
motion-picture  plays  to  stir  the  imagination 
or  appeal  to  the  emotions  of  spectators,  but 
when  I  have  examined  them  closely  to  dis- 
cover the  source  of  such  effect  I  have  invariably 
found  that  it  was  in  the  story  rather  than  in 
the  acting. 

The  inspiration  which  always  manifests  itself 
in  good  interpretations  of  characters  in  the 
regular  theatre  is  necessarily  absent  from  the 
plays  of  the  screens,  because  the  acting  must 
be  done  in  a  studio  without  the  presence  of 
an  audience.  Applause  is  tonic  and  elixir  to 
the  actor.  It  is  one  of  the  psychological 
phenomena  of  the  theatre,  as  every  one  who 
has  seen  a  rehearsal  of  a  play  before  empty 
seats  must  be  aware. 

The  actor  lives  on  approbation.  That  is  why 
[206I 


THE  DRAMA'S  FLICKERING  BOGY 

the  people  of  the  theatre,  throughout  its  whole 
history,  have  been  willing  to  make  such  great 
sacrifices  for  their  art.  There  is  something  in 
the  magnetic  influence  of  an  audience's  pres- 
ence which  thrills  the  actor  and  puts  the 
spark  of  life  into  his  work.  Without  it,  no 
matter  how  great  may  be  his  zeal,  his  per- 
formance takes  on  that  flat  and  inspirationless 
aspect  which  I  invariably  notice  in  the  motion- 
picture  plays. 

To  help  counteract  these  disadvantages  of 
what  I  may  call  studio  acting,  motion-picture 
plays  must  be  limited  to  expressing  only  the 
obvious  and  elementary  things  in  life.  What- 
ever appeal  the  performers  make  to  their 
spectators  must  depend  upon  physical  attrac- 
tiveness. The  heroine  must  invariably  be 
beautifiil.  The  hero  must  be  cast  in  the  mold 
of  an  Apollo.  So  long  as  the  main  figures  of 
any  scenario  have  to  rely  upon  physical  attri- 
butes to  render  them  impressive,  neglecting 
the  soul  for  the  sake  of  the  shell,  motion- 
picture  plays  cannot  by  any  pretext  enter  the 
field  of  an  art  which  has  for  its  fundamental 
purpose  the  interpretation  of  life. 

Many  of  our  best  actors  who  have  attempted 
the  pictures  have  proved  to  be  failures.  The 
complaint  of  the  directors  against  them  is  that 
they  "fail  to  register."  But  that  is  not  what 
the  directors  really  mean.  The  secret  of  their 
failure  is  that  they  have  actually  succeeded 
14  [  207  ] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

in  registering  some  of  the  passions  of  human 
nature,  which  is  exactly  what  the  directors 
and  movie -lovers,  either  consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously, do  not  want  them  to  do. 

Deep  emotions,  when  they  are  faithfully 
expressed,  tend  to  distort  the  features  and 
intensify  the  facial  lines.  Therefore,  a  correct 
portrayal  of  passion  does  not  conform  to  the 
standard  of  sightliness  which  has  been  set  for 
the  screens.  On  the  other  hand,  some  little 
nonentity,  who  may  not  have  the  remotest 
appreciation  of  the  emotion  that  is  involved, 
might  in  the  same  character  prove  entirely 
satisfactory. 

When  all  this  artificiality  ceases  and  scenes 
and  characters  are  played  for  what  they  are 
worth,  the  motion-picture  dramas  will  improve 
accordingly.  As  they  are  now,  they  suggest  to 
me  only  a  beautiful  corpse — a  thing  without  life. 

It  must  be  a  comparatively  easy  matter  to 
accomplish  motion  pictures  as  they  are  now 
done.  The  best  proof  of  it  is  the  great  nimi- 
ber  of  corporations  engaged  in  their  produc- 
tion, the  hundreds  of  quickly  arisen  directors 
employed  in  staging  them,  and  the  thousands 
— perhaps  tens  of  thousands — of  men  and 
women  who  have  suddenly  blossomed  into 
performers.  As  the  profession  develops  it 
will  become  smaller,  because  it  will  impose 
requirements  upon  its  people  which  cannot 
be  so  easily  met. 

1 208] 


David  Warfield  as  vSimon  Levi  in  "The  Auctioneer" 

The  first  play  in  which  Warfield  appeared  under  Mr.  Belasco's  management  after 
he  left  Weber  and  Fields'   Stock  Company 


THE  DRAMA'S  FLICKERING   BOGY 

A  convincing  proof  that  something  is  now 
lacking  in  the  pictures  from  the  viewpoint  of 
drama  is  the  fact  that  when  they  set  out  to 
make  their  strongest  impression  upon  their 
spectators  they  must  mass  great  crowds.  The 
maneuvering  of  large  bodies  of  rushing  figures 
against  picturesque  natural  landscapes  is  their 
top  notch.  Thus,  their  best  work  falls  under 
the  classification  of  spectacle,  which  is  a  primi- 
tive and  inferior  form  of  drama.  To  advance 
artistically  they  must  follow  a  new  path  toward 
simpler  things. 

I  feel  positive  that  this  advance  will  never 
come  imtil  motion-picture  plays  find  a  way  to 
interpret  themselves  without  relying  on  out- 
side aids.  There  can  be  no  art  in  them  so 
long  as  their  scenes  must  be  interrupted  every 
minute  or  two  in  order  to  let  an  audience  know 
what  the  story  is  all  about .  Scenario-writers  will 
have  to  devise  a  means  to  develop  their  plots 
without  mottoes,  "cut-backs,"  and  similar  de- 
vices which  they  now  use  to  serve  as  reminders 
of  past  episodes  or  to  give  emphasis  to  the 
scene  in  hand.  The  scheme  of  flashing  back 
momentarily  on  the  screen  an  earlier  episode 
to  warn  an  audience  "lest  we  forget"  had,  at 
first,  certain  advantages,  but  the  present  exces- 
sive use  of  the  device  has  made  it  monotonous. 
Its  effect  is  always  to  destroy  the  artistic 
symmetry  of  both  story  and  acting. 

When  motion  pictures  free  themselves  of 
[209] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

such  clumsy,  haphazard  methods  as  these, 
directors  will  engage  and  rehearse  their  com- 
panies as  carefully  as  producers  in  the  regular 
theatre  now  do.  It  would  be  a  good  thing  for 
them  to  begin  at  once  to  work  on  this  idea, 
for  it  might  lead  to  screen  dramas  which  really 
mean  something. 

II 

One  comment  I  have  made  regarding  motion 
pictures,  so  far  as  they  have  affected  the 
established  form  of  drama,  is  open  to  dispute 
and,  therefore,  calls  for  qualification.  I  have 
said  I  am  not  conscious  that  the  additional 
amusement  they  have  brought  into  the  world 
has  menaced,  so  far  as  its  material  prosperity 
is  concerned,  my  theatre  or  any  other  theatre 
in  which  drama  is  produced  as  an  art  rather 
than  as  a  commodity  for  commercial  specula- 
tion. In  other  words,  the  public  comes  in  as 
great  numbers  as  ever  before  to  see  a  genuinely 
good  play.  But  I  admit — and  this  is  the 
qualification  to  my  former  observation — that 
the  pictures  are  interfering  vexatiously  with 
the  work  that  goes  on  behind  theatre  curtains. 

The  problem  they  have  raised  is  not  com- 
mercial. It  touches  only  the  artistic  aims  of 
the  regular  dramatic  director;  and  it  grows, 
I  find,  every  time  I  set  out  to  produce  a  new 
play. 

The  new  field  which  motion-picture  shows 

f  2IO  1 


THE  DRAMA'S  FLICKERING   BOGY 

have  opened  has  attracted  great  numbers  of 
our  actors,  who  find  that  by  capitahzing  the 
prestige  they  have  won  on  the  dramatic  stage 
they  can  earn  in  the  studios,  in  a  few  weeks, 
more  money  than  they  could  command  in  the 
theatre  in  an  entire  season.  As  a  rule,  they 
profess  to  regard  the  screens  contemptuously, 
especially  if  they  are  sure  of  their  standing 
in  the  older  art,  and  they  place  their  demands 
for  salary  high  accordingly. 

They  know  that  the  motion-picture  directors 
can  afford  to  pay,  because  it  needs  only  a  few 
weeks  at  the  most  to  make  a  picttu'e.  There 
the  expense  ends  and  the  money  begins  to 
flow  in.  In  my  theatre,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  $30,000  I  may  invest  in  a  production  is 
only  a  bare  beginning.  So  long  as  the  play 
remains  before  the  public  I  am  put  to  an 
average  additional  expense  of  $8,000  a  week 
to  maintain  it. 

This  kind  of  competition — competition  for 
actors,  not  for  audiences — has  placed  a  severe 
handicap  upon  producers  who  are  careful  how 
they  organize  their  companies  and  cast  their 
plays.  There  was  a  time  when  hordes  of 
applicants  for  jobs  were  lined  up  at  my  stage 
entrance  or  in  the  waiting-room  outside  my 
office  door.  I  find  fewer  of  them  there  now, 
and  they  are  not  so  eager  for  the  positions 
they  once  so  greatly  coveted. 

Sometimes  I  have  engaged  a  young  woman 
[211] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

to  impersonate  a  maid,  or  a  young  man  for 
the  r61e  of  a  butler.  Such  inconspicuous  parts 
do  not  demand  much  ability,  yet  the  salary 
I  am  willing  to  pay  would,  in  any  other  pro- 
fession, be  preposterously  large.  Yet  the  next 
day  these  actors  have  asked  to  be  released 
from  their  contracts,  claiming  that  they  have 
been  offered  $200  a  week  to  pose  in  a  picture 
show.  I  may  resent  this  sort  of  inconstancy, 
but  usually  I  am  forced  to  let  them  go,  because 
a  dissatisfied  actor  is  almost  fatal  to  a  well- 
produced  play. 

The  regular  theatre's  new  vexations  do  not 
end  with  the  trained  actors  who  secede  tem- 
porarily to  perform  for  the  screen.  The  mo- 
tion-picture shows  are  also  diverting  every 
year  from  the  stage  profession  hundreds  of 
young  people  who,  if  they  entered  it  and  began 
at  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  might  develop  posi- 
tive genius.  They  are  attracted  into  the  other 
field  because  it  looks  easier,  and  is  much  easier, 
than  the  profession  of  the  legitimate  actor. 

They  know  that  vocal  training  is  not  needed 
by  the  picture  player.  They  are  aware  that 
youth  and  beauty  are  more  valuable  than 
experience  for  the  purposes  of  the  screens. 
They  like  the  idea  of  doing  their  acting  in  the 
open  air,  for  a  great  many  of  the  scenes  in 
motion-picture  plays  are  shown  in  natural 
surroundings.  The  jobs  they  get  may  be  of 
short  duration,  but  there  are  many  to  be  had, 

[212  ] 


THE  DRAMA'S  FLICKERING  BOGY 

and  the  pay  is  generally  high.  So  they  cannot 
be  blamed  for  choosing  the  path  of  least 
resistance. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  regretable  that  so  many 
young  men  and  women,  perhaps  with  poten- 
tial ability,  should  select  a  career  that  ignores 
all  need  of  the  preliminary  study  essential  to 
the  development  of  an  artist.  They  are  lost 
to  the  regular  dramatic  profession,  for,  once  a 
moving-picture  actor,  always  a  moving-picture 
actor. 

I  have  been  asked  time  and  again  if  I  believe 
an  occasional  "flier  in  the  movies"  to  be  harm- 
ful to  the  people  of  the  regular  dramatic  pro- 
fession. If  they  be  actors  of  just  ordinary — 
that  is  to  say,  undistinguished — talent,  I  do 
not  think  it  injures  their  work,  provided  such 
excursions  are  not  undertaken  too  often. 

At  the  same  time,  I  can  invariably  detect 
a  player  who  has  been  performing  for  the 
screens.  He  betrays  himself  in  his  constant 
tendency  to  strike  rigid  poses,  in  his  care  to 
emphasize — or  "register" — each  changing  ex- 
pression, and  in  his  effort  to  present  either  a 
full  face  or  a  profile  to  the  audience.  He  is 
likely,  also,  in  various  unconscious  ways,  to  be 
artificial  and  mechanical  in  his  gestures. 

If  an  actor  of  such  ordinary  ability,  however, 
should  ask  my  advice  about  accepting  an 
engagement  in  the  pictures,  I  would  say  to 
him: 

[213] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

"Do  not  attempt  to  ride  two  horses.  Be 
either  a  legitimate  actor  or  a  motion-picture 
actor.  If  you  think  you  have  talent  for  the 
regular  theatre,  cling  to  it.  Do  not  dilute 
your  experience  in  the  one  with  experiments 
in  the  other.  The  person  who  tries  to  ride 
two  horses  falls  between  them  in  the  end. 
Motion  pictures  are  a  world  distinct  from  the 
regular  drama.  No  one  who  aspires  to  be  an 
artist  can  hope  to  inhabit  both." 

I  would  try  to  impress  upon  my  questioner 
that  the  established  drama  will  not  change. 
We  of  the  regular  theatre  are  always  on  the 
lookout  for  the  kind  of  genius  that  gives  life 
to  the  characters  conceived  in  the  pla3rwright's 
imagination.  The  really  able  actor  will  always 
be  lauded  and  demanded  by  the  public.  It 
lies  within  the  power  of  his  genius  to  revitalize 
the  comedies  and  tragedies  of  all  ages.  We 
are  now  in  a  period  of  light  plays  in  the  theatre, 
but  a  Booth,  if  he  were  newly  arisen  and  in 
sympathy  with  the  present  methods  of  the 
stage,  could  make  "Hamlet"  live  a  year  on 
Broadway.  This  being  true,  why  should  any 
one  fear  for  the  future  of  the  theatre's  art  or 
try  to  discourage  the  popularity  of  the  motion 
pictures? 

Every  now  and  then,  though,  comes  along 
some  person  of  a  peculiar  type  who  seems  to 
me  to  be  gifted  by  natiu-e  to  act  for  the  motion 
pictures.     Such  men  or  women,   even  under 

[214] 


THE  DRAMA'S  FLICKERING  BOGY 

the  most  favorable  conditions,  would  be  likely 
to  find  only  limited  success  in  the  regular 
theatre.  Douglas  Fairbanks,  with  his  breezy, 
healthy,  out-of-door  personality,  athletic 
prowess,  and  daredevil  proclivities,  is  the  best 
example  of  this  peculiar  type.  Something  in 
the  gentle,  sweetly  sentimental  personality  of 
Mary  Pickford  exactly  qualifies  her  to  act  for 
the  screens.  Her  direct  antithesis,  but  suited 
not  less  well  for  the  shadow  vampires  who 
nowadays  are  dear  to  every  movie  fan's  heart, 
is  that  sinuous  priestess  of  the  obvious,  Theda 
Bara.     To  such  as  these  I  would  say: 

"Go  into  the  movies  and  remain  in  them. 
There  you  will  find  the  field  of  greatest  success 
and  profit  for  yourselves  and  of  your  largest 
usefulness  to  the  amusement  world.  In  you 
there  has  been  bom  the  instinct  for  the  screens." 

A  very  different  situation  arises  when  an 
established  star  of  the  regular  theatre  is 
tempted  by  the  inducements  which  the  motion- 
picture  managers  are  perpetually  dangling 
before  him.  His  step  from  the  studio  to  the 
stage  may  be  of  grave  consequence,  not  only 
for  him,  but  for  the  theatre.  To  have  become 
a  star  in  the  real  sense  means  that  the  actor 
has  reached  the  first  rank  in  his  profession,  and 
something  more.  It  implies  not  only  the 
superlative  ability  which  distinguishes  his  work 
from  that  of  other  players,  but  also  an  excep- 
tional personal  appeal  to  a  wide  public,  which 

[215I 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

is  the  result  of  God-given  qualities  that  few 
other  actors  possess. 

When  a  star  with  these  unusual  endowments 
is  asked  to  cast  his  radiance  upon  the  screen, 
he  should  reflect  that  to  become  an  idol  of 
the  movie  crowd  will  inevitably  destroy  the 
finer  personal  appeal  which  he  can  count  as 
one  of  his  most  reliable  and  permanent  assets 
in  the  legitimate  theatre.  An  audience  which 
can  see  for  five  cents  a  great  celebrity  soon 
does  not  care  to  see  him  at  all. 

The  number  of  the  theatre's  real  stars  is 
small.  They  are  in  such  great  demand  and 
so  well  paid  for  their  work  that  they  are  the 
most  independent  of  all  artists.  They  enjoy  a 
prestige  with  the  legitimate  theatre's  public 
which  they  cannot  afford  to  endanger,  even 
for  the  extravagant  salaries  which  motion 
pictures  offer.  I  would  counsel  them  to  be 
wary  and  keep  out,  for  the  compensation  of  the 
screens  is  not  a  sufficient  return,  however 
large,  for  what  they  will  be  asked  to  give. 

The  great  star  who  goes  into  the  pictures 
also  risks  his  professional  reputation,  for  the 
reason  that  the  camera  affords  him  only  a 
limited  medium  in  which  to  employ  his  abili- 
ties. He  may  discover,  after  it  is  too  late, 
that  the  equipment  which  served  him  best  on 
the  regular  stage  is  useless  for  the  restricted 
purposes  of  the  screens.  I  could  name  a  score 
of  such  stars  who  have  failed  outright  when 

[216] 


Probably  the  Best  Picture  of  David  Warfield  as  Anton  von 
Barwig  in  "The  Music  Master" 


THE  DRAMA'S  FLICKERING  BOGY 

they  have  attempted  to  perform  before  the 
camera,  and  whose  only  value  to  the  picture- 
producer  was  their  well-advertised  fame.  To 
offset  this  story  of  unwisely  directed  effort  I 
could  also  name  half  a  hundred  pretty  nonen- 
tities who  have  literally  triumphed  in  motion 
pictures  without  knowledge  of  more  than  the 
bare  elementary  principles  of  the  acting  art. 

My  stars  have  not  yet  been  ambitious  to 
make  the  adventure  in  the  motion-picture 
world.  I  might  not  oppose  them  if  they 
should  become  seized  with  the  desire.  But  I 
count  it  fortimate  for  me,  as  well  as  for  them, 
that  they  value  the  stage's  art  sufficiently  to 
remain  loyal  to  it,  despite  the  huge  salaries 
which  I,  as  well  as  they,  know  they  might  earn. 

The  great  number  of  enterprises  which  the 
popularity  of  motion  pictures  has  encouraged 
is  also  levying  a  heavy  toll  upon  the  regular 
theatre's  always  limited  nimiber  of  competent 
stage  directors.  This  phase  of  the  problem 
which  the  picture  shows  have  raised  cannot 
hamper  seriously  the  theatre  manager  who  is 
capable  of  directing  the  staging  of  his  own  pro- 
ductions, though  it  must  be  annoying  to  the 
new  generation  of  managers  whose  qualifica- 
tions are  restricted  to  the  supervision  of  the 
theatre's  business  affairs. 

Like  the  actors,  the  stage  directors  have 
been  led  to  the  pictures  by  the  better  financial 
inducements  they  can  offer,  and  some  of  them, 

[217] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

who  might  never  have  risen  high  in  the  regular 
theatre,  have  shown  surprising  aptitude  in 
the  newer  field.  I  think  that  this  is  the  most 
attractive  work  that  motion  pictures  can  offer. 
Since  they  have  not  progressed  beyond  the 
experimental  stage,  their  possibilities  are  many 
for  the  director  who  has  inventive  ability  and 
original  ideas. 

The  director  in  this  coimtry  who  has  accom- 
plished most  for  the  motion  pictures  is  David 
W.  Griffith.  His  ability  to  handle  massed 
crowds  amounts  to  positive  genius,  and  he  has 
raised  the  picture  spectacle  to  what  I  believe 
to  be  its  highest  point  of  interest.  His  stage 
knows  no  linear  limitations.  The  field  of  his 
operations  extends  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see. 

Mr.  Griffith's  entrance  into  the  pictures 
was  the  result  of  a  lucky  accident.  I  had 
known  him  as  a  young  actor  out  West  when 
the  invention  of  the  camera  was  practically 
new,  and  he  had  applied  to  me  for  a  position 
in  one  of  my  dramatic  companies.  I  had  none 
to  offer  him  at  that  time,  so  he  joined  the  Vita- 
graph  Company,  first  as  a  screen  actor.  Al- 
most immediately  he  showed  special  gifts  in 
the  directing  branch  of  the  business,  and  from 
that  time  his  rise  continued  steadily  until 
finally  he  has  reached  the  top. 

I  have  always  been  interested  in  his  progress 
and  have  watched  each  new  step  in  his  accom- 
plishments  with   increasing   admiration.     He 

[218] 


THE  DRAMA'S  FLICKERING  BOGY 

is  destined  to  go  much  farther  in  his  field, 
but  his  future  advancement  will  come  only 
when  he  gives  up  complicated  pictures  and 
adopts  a  simpler  form  for  the  screen  show. 
All  motion  pictures,  in  fact,  will  come  into  a 
closer  relation  with  art  when  they  choose  more 
intimate  themes,  devote  more  attention  to  the 
detailed  development  of  their  stories,  and 
place  less  reliance  upon  stars. 

I  have  never  felt  an  ambition  to  direct  a 
motion-pictiu*e  play,  but  I  have  often  thought 
of  the  process  I  would  adopt  if  I  were  to  under- 
take such  a  task.  It  woidd  be  greatly  at 
variance  with  the  methods  now  followed  in  the 
studios,  but  I  wager  I  would  obtain  good 
results. 

I  would  select  a  very  human  story  adjusted 
to  the  simplest  backgrounds,  with  very  few 
characters  and  no  ensemble  whatever.  In 
inventing  the  "business"  of  the  scenes  I  would 
contrive  to  have  the  hero  or  heroine  hold  the 
stage  alone  whenever  possible;  for  I  would 
aim  to  tell  the  story,  not  by  a  correlation  of 
incidents,  but  by  the  facial  expressions  of  the 
actors.  Experience  in  my  own  theatre  has 
convinced  me  that  nothing  is  so  calculated  to 
command  the  interest  of  an  audience  as  the 
concentration  of  a  scene  upon  the  work  of  one 
performer. 

I  would  avoid  the  use  of  "cut-backs," 
"close-ups,"  and  the  other  cumbersome  and 

[219] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

disconcerting  devices  now  in  vogue  on  the 
screens.  And  I  would  never  consider  my  pict- 
ure fit  for  public  exhibition  so  long  as  it  had 
to  be  interrupted  by  captions  of  explanation. 
A  motion-picture  play  which  must  depend  on 
mottoes  to  communicate  its  meaning  to  the 
spectator  is  suitable  only  to  be  thrown  away. 
As  on  my  regular  stage,  I  would  scrutinize 
every  scene  closely  to  discover  distracting, 
confusing,  or  reiterated  points,  and  these  I 
would  contrive  to  remove. 

Rehearsals  would  be  continued  tmtil  the 
actors  were  able  to  go  through  their  r61es 
without  prompting  or  directing  of  any  kind, 
and  when  it  came  to  the  filming  process  I 
would  insist  that  the  scenes  should  be  photo- 
graphed consecutively  and  in  the  order  of  their 
development.  This  last  detail  I  would  con- 
sider the  most  important  feature  of  my  method, 
since  by  following  it  out  I  am  sure  I  could 
show  the  mental  processes  of  the  characters 
which  so  seldom  now  are  even  suggested  in 
motion-picture  plays. 

It  is  a  fatal  error  of  the  motion-picture 
director  to  photograph  the  opening  scene  of  a 
screen  drama  a  week,  perhaps,  after  the  final 
scene  has  been  made.  In  the  regular  theatre 
a  play  works  up  to  its  biggest  scene  by  degrees. 
The  actor,  also,  rises  gradually  to  his  great 
dramatic  moment.  This  is  the  natural  proc- 
ess by  which  the  mind  and  the  emotions  work, 

[  220  ] 


THE  DRAMA'S  FLICKERING  BOGY 

and  there  is  no  reason  why  it  should  not  be 
followed  in  acting  before  the  camera,  I  am 
positive  that  the  absence  of  inspiration  and 
imagination  from  even  the  best  of  the  motion- 
picture  plays  up  to  the  present  time  is  because 
directors  have  fallen  into  the  habit,  for  reasons 
of  economy  or  convenience,  of  doing  their 
work  in  patches. 

My  picture  being  now  complete  and  ready 
for  the  public,  I  would  require  that  the  speed 
of  its  exhibition  be  regulated  to  fit  the  natural 
gestiu'es  and  movements  of  hiunan  beings. 
In  all  the  picture  plays  I  have  ever  seen  the 
figures  dash  through  the  scenes  with  such 
lightning  rapidity  that  every  facial  expression 
becomes  a  grimace,  and  the  effect  of  the  whole 
is  turned  into  travesty.  Nothing  in  the  mo- 
tion-picture profession  is  quite  so  appalling 
to  me  as  this  malicious  energy  of  the  camera 
man. 

If,  in  these  observations  concerning  a  com- 
paratively new  medium  of  entertainment  and 
its  relation  to  the  spoken  and  acted  drama, 
to  which  my  life  has  been  devoted,  I  have 
combined  criticism  with  suggestion,  it  is  not 
because  I  underrate  the  pleasure  it  now 
affords  for  a  vast  public  or  the  possibilities 
its  development  promises  for  the  future.  The 
motion  picture  better  deserves  commendation 
for  what  it  has  already  accomplished  than 
blame  because  its  necessary  limitations  deny 

[221  ] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

it  a  place  among  the  theatre's  alHed  arts. 
Those  who  regard  the  picture  play  lightly 
because  they  cannot  derive  from  it  the  artistic 
satisfaction  which  they  find  in  real  drama, 
make  the  mistake  of  demanding  too  much  of 
it.  They  should  remember  that  one  cannot 
be  confused  with  the  other,  for  the  reason  that 
drama  is  life  and  the  screen  is  destined  always 
to  remain  a  cold  picture  of  life. 

But  there  is  no  reason,  in  view  of  the  me- 
chanical perfection  of  the  camera,  why  it  should 
not  develop  an  art  of  its  own,  or,  at  least, 
something  which  is  akin  to  art.  That  art  will 
not  appear  until  the  motion  picture  has  de- 
veloped a  separate  medium  which  does  not 
borrow  from  the  acted  and  spoken  drama, 
has  found  its  own  school  of  writers,  and  trained 
its  own  kind  of  actors. 

I  would  not  be  surprised  if  the  time  were 
to  come  when  motion-picture  directors,  prof- 
iting by  the  experience  of  the  regular  stage, 
will  organize  permanent  companies  of  their 
own  and  train  their  actors  according  to  en- 
tirely new  methods.  Then  they  will  shun 
the  people  of  the  regular  stage,  for  the  reason 
that  they  will  require  an  entirely  different 
theory  of  acting. 

When  such  a  readjustment  of  the  picture 
plays  is  made,  it  will  be  time  enough  for  pro- 
ducers in  the  regular  theatre  to  fear  the  com- 
petition of  the  screens.     Until  then  pictures 

[  222  ] 


THE  DRAMA'S  FLICKERING  BOGY 

will  remain  only  the  theatre's  bogyman — 
things  without  substance  and  made  of  shadows. 
Even  afterward  they  can  never  actually  menace 
the  older  art,  for  they  will  still  be  denied  the 
vital  element  of  all  drama — the  human  voice. 

I  have  never  heard  the  claim  made  in 
Latin  countries  that  pantomime  is  a  menace 
to  the  real  theatre,  though  it  has  existed  there 
for  centuries  as  a  separate  art.  I  have  never 
known  the  marionette  theatres  to  be  regarded 
as  dangerous  competitors  of  the  real  theatre, 
though  they  are,  or  were,  more  numerous  in 
southern  Europe  than  the  movie  shows  are  in 
America.  Like  the  pictures,  they  are  an 
additional  amusement  in  a  world  which  will 
forever  crave  and  demand  amusement. 

The  theatre  in  which  I  live  and  work  can 
never  be  endangered  from  the  outside.  There 
is  nothing  which  can  actually  menace  it  or 
divert  from  it  the  public's  sustaining  interest, 
except  bad  plays  and  bad  actors.  For  these, 
fortunately,  the  remedy  lies  in  its  own  hands. 

15 


Chapter  VII 
HOLDING  THE  MIRROR  UP  TO  NATURE 


T^HROUGHOUT  the  history  of  the  theatre 
*■  there  has  never  been  a  period  of  con- 
siderable duration  when  it  has  not  seemed  as 
if  destructive  agencies  were  subtly  at  work 
to  swerve  the  art  which  it  shelters,  and  of 
which  it  is  the  symbol,  away  from  the  clearly 
defined  pathway  of  normal,  healthy  develop- 
ment. 

These  iconoclastic  movements  or  tendencies 
have  not  been  confined  to  the  Anglo-Saxon 
theatre  or  to  any  one  era.  Their  disrupting 
influence  has  been  exerted  alike  against  the 
theatre  of  France,  of  Germany,  of  Italy,  and 
of  Spain,  and,  at  a  later  time,  when  art  in 
Scandinavia  and  Russia  began  to  find  its  ex- 
pression in  drama,  against  the  theatre  of  these 
peoples  as  well.  Nowhere  in  the  world  has 
the  theatre  remained  immune  from  the  experi- 
menter with  fantastic  notions  and  limited 
experience  who  has  sought  to  deflect  its 
progress  from  its  normal  course.     The  ancient 

[  224] 


David  Belasco  and  His  Mother, 
Reina  Martin  Belasco 


David  Belasco  at  Twenty 

Taken    in    1873.     Photo    by    White 
Studio 


David  Belasco  at  Thirty-two  David  Belasco  at  Forty 

Taken  in  1885.     Photo  by  Falk  Taken  about  1893.    Photo  by  Sarony 


HOLDING  THE  MIRROR  UP  TO  NATURE 

theatre  of  Athens  and  Rome  was  similarly 
afflicted;  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  still  more 
ancient  theatre  of  China  and  Japan  bore  its 
share  also  of  the  burden  laid  upon  it  by  the 
revolutionist,  the  charlatan,  and,  by  what  is 
still  worse,  the  misguided  enthusiast  who  has 
not  been  able  to  interpret  clearly  the  records 
of  the  past  or  to  profit  by  the  truths  of  his 
own  time. 

This  very  human  impulse  to  meddle  with 
the  drama,  and  to  substitute  for  the  accepted 
standards  of  the  theatre  fantastic  practices 
which  are  only  fads  and  whims  of  the  passing 
hour,  has  not  been  restricted  to  any  one  of  the 
allied  departments  of  its  art.  Such  standards 
have  not  been  hastily  formed.  They  are 
created  out  of  the  brilliant  and  sound  tradi- 
tions which  have  been  bequeathed  to  the  stage 
by  its  greatest  geniuses  who  have  gone  before 
and  whose  accomplishments  have  formed  the 
successive  steps  in  its  progress. 

Every  department  of  the  art  has  been 
affected  temporarily  by  such  pernicious  and 
destructive  interference.  The  golden  age  of 
dramatic  poetry  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  theatre 
of  the  seventeenth  century — the  age  of  Shake- 
speare— was  followed  by  an  interval  when  it 
seemed  that  the  English  stage  was  doomed  to 
destruction  by  a  wave  of  licentiousness.  Yet 
it  survived  the  playwrights  of  that  time,  and 
retrieved   itself   with   the   sparkling,   brilliant 

1 225] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

comedies  of  manners  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
The  wave  of  fustian,  spread  by  the  flamboyant 
dramatists  of  the  early  nineteenth  century, 
was  swept  away  by  a  school  of  playwrights 
within  the  memory  of  a  still  living  generation, 
which  sought  again  to  hold  a  truer  mirror  up 
to  nature  and  to  reflect  life  faithfully  on  the 
stage.  Is  there  not  even  to-day  a  certain 
temptation  to  readjust  the  technique  of  dra- 
matic construction  to  the  newly  evolved  prin- 
ciples of  the  motion-picture  plays?  Will  it 
last?  Must  the  standards  established  by  our 
permanent  dramatic  literatiire  go  for  nothing? 
I  think  not. 

So,  too,  in  the  art  of  acting.  Periods  of 
upheaval  have  come  when  acting  has  degen- 
erated to  strutting,  posturing,  and  oratory. 
But  the  human  spark  in  the  histrionic  art  has 
remained  alive  in  defiance  of  the  innovators. 

The  arts  of  costuming  and  stage  decoration, 
too,  have  passed  through  their  times  of  revolu- 
tion, but  always  the  best  that  tradition  affords 
has  survived.  The  pictorial  side  of  the  the- 
atre has  kept  pace  with  the  drama's  normal 
development,  appropriating  and  adjusting  to 
its  needs  the  inventions  and  discoveries  of  the 
scientific  world,  and  always  bringing  the  stage 
a  little  closer  to  its  goal — the  faithful  reflection 
of  nature. 

Consider  this  development  in  the  art  of 
lighting  alone,  which  I  believe  to  be  of  greater 

[226J 


HOLDING  THE  MIRROR  UP  TO  NATURE 

importance  in  enforcing  the  meaning  and  the 
appeal  of  a  work  of  dramatic  art  than  either 
scenery  or  costimies.  The  crude  rushHghts  of 
Shakespeare's  time  were  followed  successively 
by  the  tallow  and  sperm  candles,  the  oil -lamp, 
gas,  the  calcium,  and  finally  by  electricity 
in  all  its  various  and  intricate  uses.  Each 
method  improved  upon  the  one  which  had 
preceded  it;  each  brought  the  stage  a  little 
nearer  to  a  more  faithful  suggestion  of  the 
effects  of  nature. 

But  with  such  improvements,  have  we  been 
expected  to  cast  aside  the  established  truths 
of  the  influence  of  light  upon  the  human 
emotions?  Nature  told  the  dramatist  and  the 
stage  director  of  centimes  ago,  as  it  tells  him 
to-day,  that  romantic  love  suggests  twilight 
or  moonlight  scenes,  that  joyousness  and  gaiety 
are  best  expressed  in  sunlight,  that  sorrow 
makes  its  most  poignant  appeal  when  shown 
in  subdued  lights,  and  that  the  sinister  and 
the  ugly  are  intensified  when  revealed  in  un- 
certain shadows. 

The  circumstance  that  the  theatre  and  its 
art  in  all  times  and  in  all  countries  have  been 
made  a  target  for  extravagant  innovations  by 
theorists  and  irresponsible  experimenters  is 
not,  to  my  mind,  very  remarkable.  In  the 
very  nature  of  the  theatre  lie  reasons  why 
it  should  be  an  inviting  field  for  the  faddist 
and  for  those  others  even  of  sincere  purpose 

[227I 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE  DOOR 

who  are  possessed  of  the  mistaken  idea  that 
their  newly  conceived  notions  of  its  art  are 
superior  to  the  accumulated  traditions  of  the 
centuries.  These  reasons,  though,  do  not  deny 
the  theatre  the  right  to  progress  along  the  line 
of  its  normal  development. 

Of  all  the  fine  arts,  the  dramatic  art  responds 
most  generally  and  directly  to  the  desires  and 
tastes  of  the  people.  Of  all  the  fine  arts, 
it  stands  in  most  intimate  relation  to  their 
daily  lives.  The  theatre,  whatever  be  the 
present  system  of  its  management,  is  a  public 
institution,  and  it  and  its  affairs  are  contin- 
ually in  the  public  eye.  The  worker  within 
its  walls  is  certain  of  an  audience  such  as  the 
worker  in  no  other  art  commands.  And 
actual  accomplishment  in  the  dramatic  art 
receives  its  reward  more  quickly  and  more 
generously  than  similar  accomplishment  in 
any  of  its  sister  arts. 

It  is  inevitable,  therefore,  that  an  Institution 
which  has  such  a  firm  grip  upon  public  interest 
should  entice  both  the  well-meaning  innovator, 
with  false  theories  of  art  to  exploit,  and  the 
faddist  and  crank  who  is  chiefly  intent  upon 
seeking  notoriety  for  himself.  There  are  also 
freaks  and  revolutionaries  in  the  other  arts, 
but  the  incentive  to  them  is  not  so  great, 
since  their  work  is  not  performed  in  the  lime- 
light of  public  attention.  And  those  who 
make  the  theatre  the  scene  of  fantastic  experi- 

[228I 


HOLDING  THE  MIRROR  UP  TO  NATURE 

ments  may  always  rely  to  a  certain  extent  upon 
the  curiosity  which  is  inherent  in  the  public. 

So  the  irresponsible  experimenter  in  the 
theatre  rarely  fails  to  command  an  audience, 
temporarily,  and  the  more  energetically  he 
proclaims  his  freak  innovations  the  larger, 
for  a  limited  time,  his  audience  becomes.  A 
crowd  can  always  be  summoned  to  inspect  an 
exhibit  of  freakish  art,  just  as  it  will  gather  to 
gaze  with  wonder  upon  a  five-legged  calf, 
although  none  in  the  crowd  may  be  willing  to 
concede  that  the  one  is  good  art  or  that  the 
other  is  a  good  kind  of  calf.  In  the  mean  time, 
however,  the  exhibitor  is  accomplishing  his 
purpose,  for  at  least  he  is  attracting  the  crowd. 

It  is  inevitable,  also,  that  the  theatre  be 
sensitive  to  the  thought,  movements,  and 
proclivities  of  its  own  time.  The  stage  is  a 
mirror  in  which  are  reflected  the  manners 
and  peculiarities  of  life  of  its  contemporaneous 
day.  So  the  drama  is  always  affected  to  a 
large  degree  by  the  thought  and  by  the  social, 
political,  and  economic  customs  of  the  genera- 
tion from  which  it  springs.  Much  of  such 
drama  is  ephemeral  and  transitory,  and  soon 
disappears;  but  that  part  of  it  which  is  per- 
manent and  survives  becomes  the  epitome 
of  its  own  era.  So  it  is  understandable  that 
it  should  reflect,  fitfully,  at  least,  all  the  freak- 
ish extremes  of  its  time,  as  well  as  all  normal 
lines  of  artistic  endeavor. 

[  229] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

It  is  one  of  the  fortunate  peculiarities  of 
the  theatre,  nevertheless,  that,  to  whatever 
lengths  its  extremes  and  extravagances  may 
go,  they  never  fail  to  provide  in  good  time 
their  own  antidote.  The  pendulimi  of  its 
activities  swings  first  this  way  and  then  that, 
but  invariably  it  returns  to  its  normal  position, 
and  this  position  marks  the  path  of  its  healthy 
progress. 

For  this  steadying  influence  which  seems 
to  lie  within  the  theatre  there  is  an  easy  ex- 
planation. Of  all  the  arts  the  dramatic  art 
is  the  most  democratic  in  its  appeal.  Its  crafts- 
men who  contribute  to  its  real  dignity  and  per- 
manency must  be  guided,  not  by  the  eccen- 
tricities of  the  self-appointed  intellectual  few, 
but  by  the  normal  (which,  in  the  long  run, 
are  the  best  balanced)  tastes  and  desires  of  the 
great  general  public. 

To  this  vast  community  of  the  theatre's 
supporters  the  book  of  nature  is  never  closed. 
They  need  no  extraordinary  faculty  of  per- 
ception to  detect  to  what  extent  the  great 
truths  of  life  and  nature  are  faithfully  repro- 
duced in  their  dramas.  Their  knowledge  of 
life  has  been  gained  from  their  experience  with 
life,  their  appreciation  of  the  beauty  of  nature 
from  nature  itself  as  it  unfolds  around  them. 
The  emerald  green  of  the  fields,  the  cerulean 
blue  of  the  sky,  the  changing  hues  of  a  simimer 
sunset,  the  harmonious  mingling  of  colors  in  a 

[230] 


Robert   T.  Haines  as   Kara,  Blanche  Bates  as  Yo-San,  in 
"The  DarHng  of  the  Gods" 


HOLDING  THE  MIRROR  UP  TO  NATURE 

distant  landscape — these  manifestations  of  nat- 
ure are  familiar  to  all  people  through  actual 
experience.  They  refuse  to  be  deluded  by 
the  distorted  forms  and  colors  contrived  by 
those  who  look  out  upon  the  world  through 
abnormal  eyes.  The  mirror  which  reflects 
nature  to  them  in  the  theatre  must  be  neither 
concave  nor  convex.  Its  illusion  must  be  true, 
and  only  to  the  extent  that  it  is  true  will  it 
successfully  stir  their  imaginations.  So,  again, 
the  freak  movements  in  scenic  art  which  spring 
up  from  time  to  time  do  not  divert  the  stage 
from  its  normal  course,  even  though  tem- 
porarily they  may  tend  to  retard  its  progress. 
As  I  have  full  confidence  in  the  steadying 
influence  of  the  healthy  taste  of  the  great 
public  which  supports  the  theatre,  I  have 
never  been  much  disturbed  by  the  sporadic 
eccentricities  of  which  the  stage  has  been 
made  the  victim.  Through  thirty-seven,  or 
more,  years  of  constant  and  intimate  associa- 
tion with  the  theatre,  and  as  a  producer  of 
plays,  I  have  witnessed  these  vagaries  within 
the  theatre,  and  the  waves  of  temporary 
encouragement  they  have  received  from  the 
public,  come  and  go.  I  have  seen  the  pendu- 
lum swing  wide,  but  always  it  has  returned  to 
the  center.  There  have  been  times  when  it 
has  seemed  as  if  the  stage  had  surrendered 
itself  to  the  study  of  problems  of  sex  abnor- 
mality, but  always  it  has  reverted  to  the  normal 

[  231  ] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS   STAGE  DOOR 

truths  of  nature.  Again,  it  has  seemed  as  if 
false  and  exaggerated  romance  had  stifled  the 
expression  of  real  life  in  the  drama,  but  pres- 
ently the  common  sense  of  the  public  has  re- 
turned and  truth  has  reasserted  itself.  Life 
is  various,  and  human  nature,  to  be  faithfully 
depicted,  must  be  shown  in  all  its  aspects. 
I  have  never  doubted  the  power  of  the  theatre 
to  maintain  its  even  balance,  to  be  true  to 
life  from  which  it  derives  its  inspiration,  and 
it  has  been  the  single  aim  of  all  my  work  and 
thought  to  bring  the  theatre  and  the  dramatic 
art  into  closer  and  truer  harmony  with  life 
and  nature.  Through  such  effort,  and  only 
through  such  effort,  on  the  part  of  those  who 
are  in  control  of  the  stage  will  the  theatre 
continue  to  maintain  its  place  of  interest  and 
influence  among  the  people,  and  the  drama 
preserve  its  integrity  among  the  arts — the 
greatest  of  the  arts  because  it  combines  them  all. 
I  must  admit,  however,  that  sometimes  I 
have  had  not  a  few  misgivings  because  of  a 
comparatively  recent  form  of  theatrical  eccen- 
tricity which  masquerades  as  extreme  impres- 
sionism and  which,  after  spasmodic  outbreaks, 
principally  in  the  theatres  of  Germany,  has 
foimd  champions  among  a  few  writers — seldom 
practical  men  of  the  theatre — in  England  and 
also  in  this  country.  I  have  little  doubt  that, 
like  all  other  faddish  movements  in  the  theatre, 
this  vagary,  too,  will  have  its  little  day  and  then 

[232] 


HOLDING  THE  MIRROR  UP  TO  NATURE 

disappear.  I  do  not  fear  its  ultimate  ill  effect 
upon  our  dramatic  art,  but  I  do  deplore  its 
possible  influence  for  a  time  upon  the  view- 
point and  taste  of  a  considerable  part  of  the 
theatregoing  public  who  should  be  the  most 
ardent  champions  of  legitimate  endeavor  in 
the  dramatic  profession. 

This  school  of  impressionism  is  avowedly 
hostile  to  naturalism — the  art  of  reflecting  life 
and  nature  in  their  true  and  normal  aspects, 
either  through  the  proscenium  opening  of  the 
theatre  or  upon  the  canvas  of  the  painter — 
and  as  a  lover  of  nature  who  sees  beauty 
through  normal  eyes,  and  draws  all  his  inspira- 
tions from  it,  I  would  be  imfaithful  to  my 
ideals  if  I  did  not  raise  my  voice  in  protest. 
Its  champions  argue  that  impressionism  is 
revolutionizing  all  existing  forms  of  dramatic 
production.  Let  us  see.  In  Germany,  where 
before  the  war  it  claimed  its  greatest  nimiber 
of  adherents,  where  Max  Reinhardt,  the  Berlin 
producer,  is  its  oracle,  it  is  only  casual.  Mr. 
Reinhardt  has  earned  the  compliment  of  in- 
spiring many  imitators,  but,  of  the  two  the- 
atres he  directs,  one  is  restricted  entirely  to 
dramas  produced  by  established  methods,  while 
he  devotes  the  other  to  his  fantastic  experi- 
ments with  impressionistic  draperies.  War- 
saw, Moscow,  and  St.  Petersburg  each  has  had 
a  small  "art"  theatre  given  over  to  these  stage 
experiments.     The  movement  has  also  claimed 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

a  few  adherents  in  Paris,  but  there  it  has  been 
a  pronounced  faihrre;  it  has  hardly  so  much 
as  tinged  the  art  of  the  French  stage.  London 
has  had  its  voluble  mouthpiece  in  Gordon 
Craig,  who  has  accomplished  little  more  than 
to  ventilate  his  fantastic  theories  in  an  inex- 
plicable book,  entitled  On  the  Art  of  the  Theatre. 
He  certainly  has  not  succeeded  in  dimming 
the  luster  of  Sir  Henry  Irving  as  a  commanding 
genius  among  British  actors  and  producers, 
or  Alma-Tadema  as  a  genius  of  the  scene 
designer's  brush. 

The  gospel  preached  and  tiresomely  reiter- 
ated by  experimenters  in  this  method  of  pro- 
duction would  lead  us  to  believe  that  the 
theatre  and  the  acting  art,  as  they  have 
developed  from  the  Elizabethan  age,  are  all 
wrong.  They  would  have  us  think  that  the 
naturalistic  methods  of  decorating  the  stage 
have  the  effect  of  stifling  instead  of  stirring 
imagination.  They  would  urge  that  the  faith- 
fid  imitation  of  the  effects  of  nature,  as  an 
environment  for  characters  in  the  living  images 
of  men  and  women,  is  destructive  to  real  beauty 
and  truth. 

But  are  they?  Must  the  thought  and  labor 
of  the  geniuses  of  the  theatre  through  the 
centuries  go  for  nothing?  Have  we,  in  the 
present  day,  learned  nothing  from  the  past? 
Have  the  great  personages  of  the  English 
and  American   theatre — Garrick,   Kean,   Ma- 

[234] 


HOLDING  THE  MIRROR  UP  TO  NATURE 

cready,  Forrest,  Charlotte  Cushman,  Wallack, 
Benson,  Irving,  Daly — to  mention  only  a  scat- 
tered few  in  a  formidable  list,  lived  in  vain? 
Are  the  works  of  our  dramatists  in  the  last 
generation,  who  have  brought  the  stage  elbow 
to  elbow  with  life,  to  be  discarded  and  left 
to  molder  on  the  shelves  because  the  char- 
acters of  men  and  women  which  they  have 
portrayed  cannot  be  represented  in  the  theatre 
according  to  the  eccentricities  of  impression- 
istic art?  Is  Sir  Arthur  Wing  Pinero's  "The 
Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,"  the  most  vital  and 
truest  picture  of  human  experience,  and  the 
most  perfect  model  of  social  drama  in  its 
decade,  to  be  no  longer  available  for  the  uses 
of  the  actor  and  stage-manager?  If  it  is, 
how  can  its  realism  be  represented  before 
fantastic  curtains  and  upon  a  stage  so  con- 
structed that  the  actors  are  practically  in 
the  audience?  How  would  the  impressionistic 
stage  director,  for  instance,  produce  Henry 
Arthur  Jones's  "The  Silver  King"  or  the  virile, 
naturaHstic  drama  of  Augustus  Thomas? 

It  is  the  claim  of  the  radical  impressionists 
that  to  reproduce  the  effects  of  nature  faith- 
fully in  the  theatre  is  to  stifle  imagination  and 
to  distract  attention  from  the  beauty  of  the 
spoken  word  of  the  play.  It  is  argued  that  a 
few  violent  splotches  of  green  upon  a  drapery 
can  better  express  to  an  audience  the  idea  of  a 
forest  than  the  actual  reproduction  in  painting, 

[235] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

and  in  light  effects,  of  that  forest.  Or  that  a 
few  vivid,  soHd  colors  spread  over  an  unstable 
back-cloth  can  suggest  to  the  mind  the  brill- 
iant glories  of  a  summer  sunset.  I  confess 
that  I  cannot  follow  the  theories  of  theatrical 
impressionism  to  such  lengths. 

By  those  who  admire  naturalism  in  the 
theatre  I  have  been  called  a  magician  and  a 
hypnotist.  By  those  who  subscribe  to  fan- 
tastical stage  decoration  I  am  charged,  on  the 
other  hand,  with  being  an  unimaginative  and 
unsympathetic  realist.  Both  charges  are  the 
sheerest  nonsense!  I  gained  my  first  ideas  of 
lighting  from  the  wonderful  skies  of  southern 
California.  I  went  direct  to  nature  for  my 
inspiration.  There,  on  the  brightest  days,  I 
would  sit  among  the  hills  and  watch  the  lights 
and  shadows  as  they  came  and  went.  After  a 
time  I  began  trying  to  reproduce  those  lights 
and  shadows.  I  loved  it  all,  and  I  knew  I 
could  not  go  wrong,  for  my  lessons  were 
learned  from  the  book  of  natiu*e.  How,  may 
I  ask,  can  one  be  false  to  art  when  he  is  true 
to  nattire,  which  is  God's  work? 

Mere  conventional  effects  in  the  theatre 
are  not  true  to  nature  or  authentic  in  the  im- 
pression they  make  upon  the  imagination  of 
an  audience.  For  instance,  effects  of  simlight 
vary  in  different  localities  on  the  earth.  The 
color  qualities  of  a  California  sunset  are  not 
the  same  as  of  a  sunset  in  Japan.    Or  of  a 

[236] 


HOLDING  THE  MIRROR  UP  TO  NATURE 

sunset  in  Mexico.  Or  among  the  hills  of 
Alsace-Lorraine.  So  the  processes  by  which  I 
created  the  light  effects  in  "The  Girl  of  the 
Golden  West"  had  to  be  different  from  the 
processes  which  I  used  in  securing  correspond- 
ing effects  in  "The  Darling  of  the  Gods." 
And  the  soft  light  with  which  I  flooded  the 
scene  through  the  convent's  open  door  in  the 
production  of  "  Marie-Odile"  differed  from 
either  of  the  other  two. 

I  have  been  applauded  for  what  I  have 
accomplished  in  these  plays.  I  fear  I  have 
been  applauded  more  than  I  have  deserved, 
for  it  is  not  I  who  dictated  their  light  effects, 
but  nature.  All  I  had  to  do  was  to  go  to 
nature  for  my  inspiration  and  ideas,  and  then 
find  a  way  to  reproduce  acciu^ately  nature's 
phenomena  on  my  stage.  And  yet  I  am  told 
that  all  this  is  not  art,  that  art  consists  of 
pink  and  yellow  and  blue  splotches  upon  a 
curtain,  or  draperies  illuminated  from  above 
by  shafts  of  white  electric  light.  I  reply  that 
when  you  use  false  lights  and  colors  you  do 
not  stimulate  imagination,  you  only  distort 
reahty.  And  when  you  distort  reality  you 
have  destroyed  truth. 

II 

I  have  been  asked  many  times  what  I  con- 
sider my  most  successful  achievement  in  stir- 

I237I 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

ring  imagination  through  the  agencies  of 
scenery.  I  invariably  reply  that  the  scene 
of  the  passing  of  an  entire  night  in  ' '  Madame 
Butterfly"  has  been  my  most  successful  effort 
in  apipealing  to  the  imaginations  of  those  who 
have  sat  before  my  stage.  In  that  scene  the 
little  Japanese  heroine  is  waiting  with  her 
child  for  its  father,  Lieutenant  Pinkerton,  to 
come  from  the  American  ship.  Her  vigil 
represented  an  entire  night.  To  portray  this 
episode,  Blanche  Bates  was  compelled  to  hold 
the  stage  for  fourteen  minutes  without  uttering 
a  word.  So,  to  keep  an  audience's  imagination 
stirred — to  persuade  it  that  what  it  was  wit- 
nessing was  real — it  was  necessary  to  have  a 
scene  of  changing  beauty.  There  was  not  a 
dissenting  voice  in  the  criticism  of  that  scene. 
My  experiment  was  hazardous,  but  it  suc- 
ceeded, and  its  success  was  due  entirely  to  its 
imaginative  appeal.  The  secret  of  its  fascina- 
tion lay  in  my  use  of  lights. 

Let  me  also  cite  the  scene  of  the  bamboo 
forest  in  "The  Darling  of  the  Gods,"  in  which 
Kara  and  his  band  of  Samurai,  driven  to  their 
last  stand,  fulfil  the  highest  ideal  of  ancient 
Japanese  chivalry  and  end  their  lives  by  hara- 
kiri.  My  problem  was  to  impress  the  awful- 
ness  of  this  situation  upon  my  audiences  and 
yet  eliminate  from  it  every  repellent  or  grue- 
some detail.  So,  behind  the  gaunt  bamboo- 
trees    I    conceived    a    great,    crimson    moon, 

[238] 


HOLDING  THE  MIRROR  UP  TO  NATURE 

indicative  of  blood  and  death.  The  Samurai 
were  lost  to  view  back  among  the  bamboo- 
trees.  Then,  as  Yo-San  and  Kara  waited  in 
their  last  love  embrace,  one  heard  the  clatter 
of  falling  armor  as  each  of  the  band  went  to 
his  self -chosen  sacrifice. 

The  effect  of  this  scene,  and  I  base  my  opin- 
ion upon  the  demeanor  of  hundreds  of  audi- 
ences that  I  have  watched,  was  electrical. 
And  yet,  sixteen  years  after  "The  DarHng  of 
the  Gods"  was  produced,  I  am  informed  by  a 
new  school  of  perhaps  two  dozen  enthusiasts 
that  naturalism  has  become  an  outlaw  among 
the  arts. 

I  may  offer  one  more  instance  in  the  pro- 
duction of  Edward  Knoblock's  drama,  "Marie- 
Odile."  It  supplies  a  good  contrast  between 
the  new  stagecraft  and  the  methods  of  realism 
to  which  I  shall  adhere  as  long  as  I  remain 
in  the  service  of  dramatic  art. 

When  the  Prussian  Uhlans  have  invaded 
the  convent,  from  which  all  the  nuns  have  fled, 
except  the  little  novice  who  is  the  heroine  of 
the  play,  and  are  seated  at  the  table  where  the 
audience  had  seen  the  nuns  sitting  at  break- 
fast before,  their  singing  of  "The  Watch  on 
the  Rhine"  is  interrupted  by  the  command 
of  the  sergeant,  who  calls  out: 

"Silence!  Silence!  Didn't  you  hear  some- 
thing? Listen!  I — thought — I — heard — gims. 
'Sh!     Don't  you?" 

16  [  239  ] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE   DOOR 

They  all  listened  intently,  and  the  corporal, 
who  had  gone  over  to  the  doorway  leading  to 
the  courtyard,  says: 

*  *  Yes — 'way  off.     I  thought  just  now — ' ' 

This  little  scene  was  so  impressively  per- 
formed and  it  stirred  to  such  a  degree  the 
imagination  of  the  audience  that  a  vivid  im- 
pression was  conveyed  of  actually  hearing  the 
distant  booming  of  cannon.  Yet  not  a  single 
gun  had  been  heard.  All  was  silence  on  the 
stage. 

Now  it  would  have  been  very  easy  for  me 
to  fire  a  gun,  or  guns,  muffled  to  suggest  dis- 
tance. But  I  did  not  want  actual  noise  to 
mar  the  sustained  quiet  and  serenity  of  the  play. 
So  I  was  obliged  to  make  the  audience  believe 
that  they  had  heard  the  guns,  even  though  they 
actually  had  not. 

To  accomplish  this  purpose  required  extraor- 
dinarily careful  drilling  of  the  actors.  Over 
and  over  again  during  the  rehearsals  of  the 
play,  when  the  lines,  such  as  "Silence!  Silence! 
Didn't  you  hear  something?  Listen!  I — 
thought — I — ^heard — guns!"  were  spoken,  a 
muffled  drum  in  the  distance,  off-stage,  was 
beaten  in  imitation  of  the  far-off  discharge  of 
cannon.  I  kept  this  up  day  after  day  until 
the  soldiers  became  so  accustomed  to  actually 
hearing  the  sounds  that,  when  the  drum  was 
taken  away,  its  sound  was  thoroughly  trans- 
planted into  their  imaginations.     Such  became 

[  240] 


HOLDING  THE  MIRROR  UP  TO  NATURE 

the  imagination  of  the  scene  itself  that  it 
stirred  equally  the  imaginations  of  the  people 
in  the  audience.  Can  it,  therefore,  be  con- 
tended with  truth  that  the  quality  of  imagina- 
tion, for  which  the  real  artist  must  forever 
strive  in  the  theatre,  does  not  enter  the  method 
by  which  the  realist  in  dramatic  art  goes  about 
his  task? 

The  new  method  of  stagecraft  places  alto- 
gether too  much  importance  upon  the  pro- 
ducer. I  hear  a  good  deal  about  "the  Belasco 
method,"  and  I  suppose  it  originates  from  the 
importance  and  emphasis  I  place  upon  every 
minute  detail  which  makes  for  truth  in  my 
theatre.  And  as  a  producer  I  have  always 
attained  my  best  results  when  I  have  succeeded 
in  keeping  all  eccentricity  out  of  my  produc- 
tions. On  the  other  hand,  stage  impression- 
ism is  most  striking  and  effective  when  the 
producer  dominates  the  scene  at  the  expense 
of  the  play. 

The  producer,  after  all,  is  only  the  third 
party  in  the  presentation  of  a  drama.  Before 
him  come  both  the  author  and  the  actors.  The 
producer  must  be  content  to  be  only  the  un- 
seen interpreter  who  directs  the  actors  and, 
by  the  environment  which  he  provides,  creates 
the  atmosphere  which  is  in  complete  harmony 
with  the  essence  and  feeling  of  the  play.  On 
the  other  hand,  in  the  fantastic  productions 
of  the  impressionistic  school  of  dramatic  art, 

[241] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH   ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

the  producer  is  invariably  an  intruder  in  the 
play. 

When  I  read  of  the  accomplishments  of 
the  innovators  who  are  striving  to  upset  the 
established  standards  of  dramatic  art,  I  some- 
times wonder  if  the  entire  architecture  and 
arrangement  of  our  theatres  must  be  changed. 
Is  there  to  be  no  place  left  for  a  new  Pinero? 
Must  every  play  of  the  future  be  a  burlesque 
or  a  fable?  Or  is  life  to  continue  to  be  reflected 
as  it  is  and  as  normal  observers  of  its  manifold 
complexities  know  it? 

I  confess  I  am  just  a  little  astounded  at  some 
of  the  "discoveries"  which  these  innovators 
claim  to  have  made.  One  of  these  is  that,  in 
the  instances  of  certain  plays,  footlights  are 
destructive  to  illusion  and  that,  therefore, 
they  should  not  be  used.  These  revolutionary 
improvements,  and  they  include  the  double 
stage,  are  said  to  have  originated  in  Europe. 
I  would  suggest  that  there  should  be  a  little 
praise  for  what  we  have  done  in  this  country. 

It  has  been,  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  my 
practice  to  do  away  with  footlights  whenever 
the  artistic  needs  of  my  productions  have 
demanded  it.  More  than  twenty-five  years 
ago,  when  I  produced  "The  Rajah"  at  the  old 
Madison  Square  Theatre,  I  presented  entire 
scenes  without  the  use  of  footlights.  It  hap- 
pens also  that  the  old  Madison  Square  Theatre, 
since  torn  down,  was  equipped  with  the  first 

[242] 


HOLDING  THE  MIRROR   UP  TO  NATURE 

double  stage  in  the  world — the  invention  of 
Steele  Mackaye,  who  was  an  American  genius 
in  the  theatre. 

Before  I  owned  my  own  theatre,  when  I 
was  still  occupying  playhouses  under  lease,  I 
was  compelled  to  improvise  a  means  of  covering 
the  footlight  space  along  the  edge  of  the  stage 
when  I  made  productions  the  artistic  needs 
of  which  demanded  other  methods  of  illumina- 
tion than  footlights.  So  usual  had  become  my 
practice  of  doing  away  with  these  lights  that, 
when  I  built  the  present  Belasco  Theatre,  I 
had  a  device  invented  imder  my  supervision 
by  which  the  footlights  would  automatically 
sink  below  the  level  of  the  flooring.  This 
arrangement  gave  me  an  opportunity  to  make 
another  innovation  in  stage  construction,  the 
need  of  which  I  had  long  appreciated.  Simul- 
taneously with  the  sinking  of  the  footlight?, 
an  "apron"  would  project,  widening  the 
stage  over  the  orchestra  pit.  This  projection 
brought  my  stage  in  close  conformity  with 
the  "platform"  stage  of  which,  latterly,  I 
have  been  hearing  so  much.  It  not  only  af- 
forded more  room  for  my  actors,  but  also 
secured  greater  intimacy  of  relationship  be- 
tween them  and  my  audiences. 

These  innovations  demanded  improved 
means  of  lighting  in  other  parts  of  the  stage, 
so  I  installed  a  newly  invented  apparatus  for 
overhead  and  side  lighting.     I  had  come  to 

[243] 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

realize  long  before  this  time  that  rays  of  light, 
shot  upward  from  footlights,  cast  false  shadows, 
under  certain  conditions,  upon  the  faces  of  the 
actors.  Such  unillusory  effects  I  sought  to 
neutralize  by  my  overhead  lights,  and  I  am 
sure  that  I  succeeded.  But  since  then  I  have 
superseded  the  overhead  and  side-lighting 
apparatus  with  a  new  system  of  refracting 
lights  which  has  brought  me  nearer  to  the 
effects   for   which    I    have   been   striving. 

I  did  not  extinguish  my  footlights  in  the 
first  production  I  made  in  the  Belasco  Theatre, 
for  the  reason  that  the  natiu-e  of  its  dedicatory 
play,  "The  Grand  Army  Man,"  did  not  de- 
mand such  treatment.  But  a  large  part  of 
"The  Return  of  Peter  Grimm"  was  acted 
without  footlights  because  that  play  required 
these  methods  for  perfect  illusion  and  artistic 
effect.  And  footlights  were  not  in  use  at  all  in 
"  Marie-Odile,"  nor  was  their  use  contem- 
plated at  any  time  while  the  production  was 
being  prepared.  Its  immediate  predecessor, 
"The  Phantom  Rival,"  by  Ferenc  Molnar,  the 
Hungarian  dramatist,  was  produced  accord- 
ing to  the  same  methods,  as  far  as  lighting  is 
concerned.  Entire  scenes  of  the  dream  play 
might  have  been  unsuccessful  in  an  artistic 
sense  if  I  had  resorted  to  the  common  lighting 
methods  for  producing  its  hazy  dream  effects. 

I  might  have  turned  into  a  means  for  pub- 
licity my  footlight  device,  and  many  others, 

[244] 


HOLDING  THE  MIRROR  UP  TO  NATURE 

either  originated  by  myself,  invented  by  my 
mechanical  experts,  or  borrowed  from  theatres 
of  the  distant  past,  but  it  has  never  occurred 
to  me  to  do  so.  I  even  have  certain  appliances 
by  which  I  am  able  to  install  my  own  lighting 
process  temporarily  in  theatres  outside  of  New 
York,  when  my  companies  are  on  tour. 

I  fear  I  have  been  rather  too  tolerant  of  the 
attacks  by  many  of  our  writers  on  the  subject 
of  dramatic  art,  whose  eyes  are  fixed  on  the 
foreign  stage  and  to  whom  it  never  seems  to 
occur  that  our  native  accomplishments  in  the 
theatre  are  entitled  to  recognition  and  en- 
couragement. 

A  few  years  ago  I  became  convinced  that 
the  use  of  orchestras  and  entr'acte  music  in 
the  theatre  was  often  destructive  to  the  illu- 
sion of  what  was  taking  place  on  the  stage  and 
calculated  to  interfere  with  the  imaginative 
quality  which  I  was  attempting  to  put  into  my 
productions.  In  other  words,  I  came  to  believe 
that  an  orchestra,  however  delightful  its  music, 
produced  a  discordant  note  in  the  theatre. 

Therefore  I  resolved  to  do  away  with  my 
orchestra  altogether.  I  dismissed  my  musi- 
cians and  concealed  my  orchestra  pit  beneath 
a  canopy  of  flowers.  I  signaled  the  raising 
of  the  curtain  by  means  of  subdued  and  beauti- 
fully modulated  chimes. 

I  confess  that  I  was  astounded  when  some 
of  the  critics  with  supposedly  clear  perceptions 

[24Sl 


THE  THEATRE  THROUGH  ITS  STAGE  DOOR 

and  knowledge  of  the  theatre  and  dramatic 
art  immediately  proclaimed  that,  in  the  inter- 
est of  economy,  David  Belasco  was  depriving 
his  patrons  of  the  luxury  of  music  in  his 
theatres,  or  that,  owing  to  the  drastic  demands 
of  the  musical  unions,  David  Belasco  had  be- 
come so  exasperated  that  he  had  driven  his 
musicians  out  of  his  theatres.  Since  that  time 
about  half  the  theatres  in  New  York,  where 
legitimate  dramas  are  acted,  have  followed 
my  view  and  dispensed  altogether  with  music. 
There  has  been  progress,  too  apparent  to  be 
mistakable,  in  the  art  of  playwriting.  Our 
dramatists,  as  generation  has  succeeded  genera- 
tion, are  viewing  life  with  a  clearer  vision. 
The  art  of  the  theatre  has  not  moved  back- 
ward; it  grows  constantly  more  faithful  to 
the  conditions  which  it  aims  to  depict,  pre- 
serving always  the  best  usages  of  the  past. 
The  theatre  is  drawing  nearer  to  nature.  The 
images  reflected  by  its  mirror  are  ever  more 
authentic.  The  theatre  is  more  and  more, 
and  ever  more,  dedicated  to  the  service  of 
beauty  and  truth.  Its  art  is  being  constantly 
refined  in  the  crucible  of  experience.  There 
will  always  be  plenty  of  theatres  where  the 
appeal  from  the  stage  will  be  to  the  healthy 
imagination  and  the  normal  mind,  and  among 
these  theatres  will  be  mine. 

THE   END 


Date  Due 


6£C 


m 


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APR     s 
MAR  3  1 


3  liibi: 
'    1962 


^;  1966  5 


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1966  5 

1868 

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Library  Bureau  Cat.   No.   1137 


REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILIP 


)1  275  119  4 


3  1210  00413  1569 


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